


In Time

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-20 06:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winona Kirk is leaving, and Spock makes the ‘perfect’ caretaker. (Until Jim grows up, and everything changes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twelve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiki564](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiki564/gifts).



> A/N: A fill for the [Star Trek ID Kink Meme](http://strek-id-kink.livejournal.com/2836.html?thread=1343252#t1343252). This is an AU where certain things are different, such as Jim’s mother being an admiral and Spock being about 5 years older than Jim rather than 3. **The rating is likely to increase in future chapters.** More tags to come later.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

As a young cadet, it’s an honour to be invited into an admiral’s office.

That being said, this is easily one of the most daunting assignments Spock’s ever heard of in Starfleet history.

It isn’t _Starfleet_ business, exactly. She makes that very clear. Admiral Winona Kirk passes Spock a cup of coffee over her glass table—real coffee, not the synthesized stuff. Spock takes a polite sip, hiding his displeasure at the strong taste, and says, “Thank you, Admiral.”

“You’re welcome,” she answers, beaming. Then it’s back to business, and she continues right where she left off. “You know, your impeccable manners are another reason you’re my first choice for this job. Of course, it’s still completely optional, but I would be incredibly grateful to you for it, and I would, of course, assure you whatever position you like in Starfleet when the task is done.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. A high reward indeed, but she has the power to do it. Despite eating up immeasurable time he could invest in something else, it would clearly be a very wise career choice. Still, he repeats, “My manners?”

“Yes,” Admiral Kirk laughs. “My son can be a bit... ill mannered sometimes. But I assure you, he is a good boy. I think he’ll go into Starfleet himself when he’s ready—you’d be an excellent role model.”

Spock can’t exactly picture a young human boy idolizing him, not given his own past, but he says all the same, “Thank you.”

She nods. “He wouldn’t be too difficult, I imagine. He’s twelve; he can clean up after himself and make his own food, I more need someone there in case anything goes wrong, to make sure he eats properly, to make sure he doesn’t stay up all night. You know, simple things. We have a spare bedroom you could use as your own; I have a special transporter in the garage that can beam you back here any time, so it’s very convenient accommodations. And you would be paid handsomely for your time, of course, both in credits and experience points on your record. Being an experienced caregiver looks very good on the record for deep space missions, where a crew becomes a family and looking after them is vital.”

Spock nods along with everything. He understands, of course. It’s just an incredibly _strange_ assignment to be offered. He understands why she needs to do it—she herself is going on a deep space mission for several years. Her son can’t be left alone, obviously, and a cadet would be the ideal babysitter. A Vulcan cadet for a human child, Spock isn’t so sure.

But apparently this child has seen him from visiting his mother around the Academy, and apparently he pointed Spock out. Spock’s never seen the child that he’s aware of. But he has a deep respect for Admiral Kirk, who has one of the best records in the fleet. Her recommendation would go a long way, and Spock would consider it a matter of personal pride. 

Still, he feels inclined to say over his cup, “I am afraid I have no experience with childcare.”

“It’s easy,” Admiral Kirk laughs. “Well, not when you have one of your own, but babysitting an older child is easy enough. And I will be able to contact you every so often through subspace communications to Starfleet Headquarters. You will be given special clearance to enter the communication center, of course. And my messages will be relayed to the home whenever possible.”

Both of Spock’s eyebrows rise. That would be a great honour and incredibly educational, he’s sure. There are certainly undeniable benefits to this assignment. Still...

“Are you sure our cultures would be... compatible?”

The admiral laughs. “Spock, I would _love_ it if you were able to make my son more logical, but I really don’t think that’s something you need to worry about.” She takes a sip of her own coffee, leaning back in her chair across the desk, and then she sighs. Spock eyes the model of a Constitution-class starship next to the console, until she says very warmly, “Spock, I have all the confidence in the world that you would be the perfect fit for me in this situation. The only issue is whether or not you would like to take it. ...Now, unfortunately, it will be for several years, and I’m not sure how long it may end up going exactly, but you will be amply rewarded for all of it and your accommodations will be completely taken care of, as will your tuition and study supplies. If you accept, I will do my utmost to make sure that you continue your education and Starfleet experience as seamlessly as possible. ...It would be less ideal, but you could, conceivably, back out at any point, in which case I would simply require your assistance in finding a replacement. I have some time before I have to leave, but please do think about it.”

Spock puts his cup down on the saucer and says, “I will give the offer a great deal of thought, Admiral.”

She nods and stands, and he follows her lead. She escorts him out of her office with a kind smile, and he has a _lot_ to process.

* * *

He says yes. It was inevitable, really. He doesn’t have any other admirals that would ever go out of their way for him—in fact, he knows several high-appointed Vulcans that don’t hold him in the highest regard for his decision to move his education to Earth. It would also be ideal accommodations, as Spock tends to have trouble rooming with others at the Academy, although he’s never quite certain of why when he’s always so reasonable. For the main reason, Spock can’t fathom turning down a Federation officer in need who has done so much good for their galaxy. There is no logical reason to say no. She practically cries when he agrees, sprouting gratitude instantly. 

They beam right from Starfleet Headquarters to Iowa, into the little garage off an old style Earth home. After they step off the pad, Admiral Kirk says, “Lights,” and fluorescent light joins the sunlight through the small, top windows. “Sorry for the mess,” she tells him. There are several canisters in each corner, boxes in others, a bike on one side and an old car taking up most of the middle. “You can drive it if you need to. We’re mostly in the middle of nowhere, but there’s a couple stores and things about twenty minutes away by car, in case you don’t feel like warping back to San Francisco.” She stops to point at a panel on the grey, metallic walls next to the transported pad. “I’ve already overridden the usual locks to allow your signature, but James won’t be able to use it unless you expressly override it. I left the code in your PADD, but you may want to chance it occasionally; he’s a talented little imp and I can’t even fathom the hassle of trying to find him in a big city.”

Spock tries not to show his dismay. He isn’t used to parents referring to their children as imps, and he would think losing one in a big city would be more than simply a ‘hassle.’ The PADD she loaded up with data for him should prove invaluable, but it probably won’t help find a human child smart enough to override a transport console.

The admiral glances around the room one last time before deciding, “Alright, let’s go meet him.” She’s smiling, and she heads for the doors into the house, which open automatically for her.

Spock is well aware that he shouldn’t be experiencing trepidation, but he is. He tries instead to focus on his new surroundings, and he looks everywhere he can as he’s lead through a hall, past a living room and into a kitchen. It’s a two-story house with an unfinished basement, according to the PADD she gave him. The ground floor consists of a large living space, a kitchen and dining room, a hallway, a bathroom, and a porch leading into the massive backyard. The upstairs consists of another bathroom and three bedrooms—a master suite and two smaller ones. Spock will be staying in the spare. The basement is mostly a large, open space, and then a small storage room and a laundry room. All very basic; nothing ostentatious. Admiral Kirk is a humble officer.

The kitchen is like most of the house—fashioned to look old with wood furniture and wood-painted highlights, wallpaper in warm colours, and sleek stainless steel in certain places. The cupboards are a rich faux-mahogany, and Admiral Kirk reaches into one, asking, “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Spock says stiffly.

He can hear movement upstairs, and Admiral Kirk calls loudly, “Jim! Come meet your babysitter!”

“I don’t need a babysitter!” a child’s voice calls back. Spock resists the urge to raise an eyebrow. Human children are known to express much denial.

Spock did his best to research human children before accepting the assignment. It only made the task more daunting. Sounding exasperated already, Admiral Kirk shouts, “James Tiberius Kirk, you get your butt down here this instant! And be nice!”

There’s a loud growl resonating from the upstairs area. Then a door opens and there are footsteps: loud, stomping footsteps. Spock, hands behind his back, stares at the open doorway, attempting to appear completely neutral. Not nervous. Maybe a bit friendly. How does one look friendly? Humans are a puzzle, and Spock’s half human side doesn’t help.

A young boy abruptly appears in the doorway, of average build and with dirty blond hair. He’s wearing fading denim and a loose t-shirt, hands in his pockets. To Spock, he looks slightly messy and completely normal and illogically terrifying. He walks right up to them and grunts, “Hi.”

Admiral Kirk glares but only continues. “Jim, this is Spock. He’s going to be your caregiver while I’m away, and he’ll relay all those messages we talked about. I expect you to _behave_ for him.” Jim smiles at his mother in agreement, but there’s something entirely sinister beneath his bright blue eyes. She turns to Spock and says, “Spock, this is my son, Jim Kirk. I assure you, at the core, he’s a good kid.” Spock raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

The second Admiral Kirk turns to put her teacup down, searching for a tea bag in the cupboard, Jim sticks his tongue out at Spock, his face scrunching up like the human concept of a devil. Taken aback, Spock’s eyebrows knit together.

Then Admiral Kirk turns back around, and Jim’s smiling like an angel again. “Well, let’s sit down and go over some things, shall we?”

The admiral ushers them into the dining room while she makes her own tea, and Jim says, “I want chocolate milk,” so Spock gets him chocolate milk.

* * *

Spock opts to put his limited possessions away at night. When the admiral leaves, after hugging Jim tight and nearly crying, Jim immediately complains of hunger. Then he marches into the kitchen and wrenches open the freezer door, pulling out a tub of ice cream like everything is perfectly normal.

Spock follows behind him, takes the ice cream out of his hands, puts it back in the freezer and says, “That is not a nutritious dinner.”

Jim says, “What kind of name is ‘Spock,’ anyway?” And wrinkles his nose.

Confused, Spock says, “It is a Vulcan name.”

“It’s a stupid name.”

Something in Spock’s chest constricts. But this is different. This isn’t Vulcan children bullying him in his youth. He’s much older than Jim, and Jim is just being petty. He’s just mourning the temporary loss of his mother, Spock tells himself. It stands to reason that Jim will be difficult for a while.

“What would you like for dinner?”

“Ice cream.”

Spock frowns. “I am certain your mother would not wish you to consume concentrated sugar for an essential meal.”

“You’re not my mom.”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock says, “I am aware of that.”

“You don’t look old enough to be my babysitter. And your outfit looks stupid.”

Despite indeed feeling too young for this, Spock insists, “I assure you I am old enough. This is a Starfleet cadet’s uniform; the same as your mother would have worn when she began in Starfleet.”

“She probably looked better.”

More awkward than he’s ever felt in his entire life, Spock repeats, “What would you like for dinner?”

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Jim turns and heads for one of the cupboards, but he can’t quite reach the top shelf in it. Spock walks over to help, eyeing the various boxes. Jim points to one and says, “Macaroni and cheese.”

Spock pulls the box out of the cupboard. It doesn’t look particularly nutritious, but Spock isn’t fully adept with human cuisine. The Academy contains synthesizers where he was always able to get Vulcan food. Somehow, he doesn’t think Jim will want Vulcan food.

Jim stays in the kitchen and barks instructions while Spock makes it, and Spock half concentrates on treating Admiral Kirk’s home with care and half thinks about what he’s gotten himself into. Jim is showing signs of being difficult but manageable. In the end, it will certainly be worth the career enhancement.

For now, even given a Vulcan’s elongated lifespan and Spock’s marked youth, several years seems a very, very long time.

* * *

According to the PADD programmed by Admiral Kirk, Jim’s bedtime is twenty two hundred hours. The sun’s down by then, casting long shadows throughout the house, but Jim laughs when Spock suggests he retire to his room. He sits stubbornly on the couch in the living room, flipping through ancient movies on the large viewscreen mounted on the wall. He settles on something vintage depicting ‘cowboys and Indians’ as he calls it. Spock stands in the doorway, struggling to remain authoritative.

“Jim, your mother made it clear that your bedtime was precisely three minutes ago.”

Again, Jim snorts, “You’re not my mother.”

“I am aware of that. However, in her absence, I am obligated to uphold her rules.”

“I’m the master of the house now,” Jim announces boldly. Then he jabs a finger towards the door and says, “Bow down before me, slave!”

Spock raises an eyebrow. For a brief moment, he considers employing the Vulcan neck pinch. However, he quickly acknowledges that that would be unconscionable. Instead, he opts for bargaining. “If you behave appropriately and retire to your quarters, I will concede to one bow.”

For a moment, Jim looks shocked, blue eyes wide. Then he bursts out into hysterical laughter, which makes Spock more than mildly uncomfortable. Laughter isn’t something he’s ever understood particularly well. “You’re so funny, Spock!” Jim says between giggles. Spock isn’t at all sure how he’s said anything funny, but he doesn’t argue.

When he’s done laughing, Jim curls up in the cushion on the side of the couch and says finitely, “I’m watching the movie. I’ll go to sleep after, I promise.”

Spock isn’t pleased. But he doesn’t know what more to do, and if memory serves, twentieth century Earth movies were no more than an hour to two hours in length. As it’s their first night together, Spock gives in.

The noise of the movie follows Spock all the way upstairs, random gunshots followed by Jim’s subsequent yells, cheering on the long-dead actors. Spock leaves the door to the guest room open so he can hear Jim. Jim seems to be having fun.

He seems like a happy child; much more at peace than Spock was at his age, not comfortably far enough away. It’s good. Spock opens the first suitcase and proceeds to put his clothes away, folded neatly and sorted by occasion and colour. He mostly has uniforms, but as many of his studies will now be relayed to him through the viewscreen and PADDs for him to stay around Jim as much as possible, he’ll also adopt more casual clothes. In a way, Spock thinks this might be better. Sometimes he finds the social aspect of the Academy more trying than the studies themselves. With that element removed, he’ll be better able to focus on academics.

It takes Spock precisely forty-seven minutes to get his new quarters to his liking. It’s a nice enough room, made of wood with a large window covered in beige curtains behind the queen-sized bed, and there’s a wardrobe in one corner and a desk with a console in the other. There’s a nightstand next to the bed and a larger table by the door, and Spock puts his 3D chessboard on it. Perhaps Jim will learn to play at some point. There are two chairs around it. There’s only the one door; the bathroom is communal.

When Spock’s finished, he takes a walk down the hallway. The door to the master suite is closed, but Jim’s door is open. Spock takes a look inside, frowning. It’s a complete mess, covered in clothes and comic books and dishes and broken toys. Several model starships hang from the ceiling, and there’s a large poster of the solar system with a paint blob labeled in malformed handwriting ‘pluto’ on one wall. Spock will certainly have to set a date for cleaning.

The doors in the house are all old, like the house itself—they have doorknobs and don’t automatically open. The lights are new, though, and there is a small synthesizer in the kitchen with limited recipes. The cupboards are all full, so it’s clear the Kirks prefer organic food. When Spock’s done thoroughly exploring the house, he returns to the living room to find the movie still going.

But Jim’s clearly asleep, slumped against the armrest with his mouth slightly open and his eyes closed, chest rising and falling heavily. Spock’s lips almost want to twitch into a smile; that makes things considerably easier.

Jim looks far more peaceful and innocent asleep. Spock walks carefully over to him and turns off the movie, reaching down to scoop Jim up in his arms. He holds Jim tight against his chest, grateful that Jim isn’t particularly heavy.

Jim sleeps perfectly soundly as Spock ascends the stairs, crosses the hallway, and deposits him in his room, under his sheets. The bed’s a complete wreck, but Spock tugs the covers up around him, smoothing them out. They’re navy blue with dots on them like stars. The pillow covers match. Spock straightens it all out, making it neatly up around its occupant.

Before he leaves, Spock straightens out and whispers, “Lights.” They make a mechanical beeping sound and flicker down, until it’s just a soft, moonlit glow through the windows. Jim looks like he’s smiling; Spock hopes he’s having pleasant dreams.

Perhaps this assignment won’t be so bad after all.

* * *

Jim’s very particular about certain things and very easy about others. He sleeps like a rock, won’t get out of bed unless dragged, and he’ll only eat sandwiches if Spock cuts off the crust for him. Because he’s so far away, he has the option to be home schooled, and physically attending class is optional. He likes to attend whenever possible though, because he’s a social sort of person, but he’ll miss it most days if Spock doesn’t wake him up and force him to brush his teeth and shower. Spock takes to packing lunches for him, and Spock drives him into town and watches him get on the hoverbus, then drives back into town after to pick him up. It’s a lot of work, but that’s part of what Spock knew this assignment would entail.

Though it was never part of his original motivation to accept this assignment, Jim’s smile makes it worth it. He’s always bristling with life when Spock picks him back up. It’s already emotionally compromising; perhaps Earth was a poor idea for a Vulcan so young, still forming. But it’s too late now. As Spock spends his time alone catching up on his own studying, he has to admit the interaction is... pleasant. Today, Jim gets in the front seat and tosses his bag in the back, and he says, “Did you go to school on Vulcan?”

It’s a hot day. Spock pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway and answers, “Of course. However, it was very different.”

“Were you popular?” A second later, Jim adds with a large grin, “I’m popular. I think they miss me when I’m not there.”

Rather than admit to the frown in his memories, Spock says evenly, “Popularity is a relative term.”

Jim snorts. “That means no.” Then he shrugs. “That’s okay; I’ll teach you how to be cool.” He grins up at Spock, and Spock allows himself to take his eyes off the road for a hairsbreadth of a second. Jim’s looking half cheeky and half sincere.

Changing the subject, Spock says, “You had a test today. How did you do?”

“A,” Jim says proudly. There’s a spot in Spock’s stomach that’s proud too, even though that doesn’t make any sense—Jim isn’t his son or his student. “It was super easy. When I was little, Mom used to give me a treat for every A I got, but now she just does it for final exams because I get good grades all the time.”

Spock is half surprised by that. Not because he thinks Jim doesn’t deserve it—on the contrary, Jim is a very bright child. However, he lacks discipline and shows little interest in actually studying, and he takes to social or physical activities far more than academics, although he has no aversion to reading things that do interest him. Most things just seem easy to him.

“When we get back, can we make pizza?”

“I believe we have a frozen pizza in the freezer, as well as a pizza recipe for the synthesizer.” Spock would prefer to cook it, not make it. But he’d rather not have it at all. Pizza is one of those _human_ foods that is supposed to be eaten with one’s hands. On Vulcan, that isn’t done. Whenever Spock eats pizza with a knife and fork, Jim teases him. But Spock retains the use of his utensils anyway.

Jim says, “I want to make one from scratch. It’ll be fun.”

“It will also be needlessly messy and time consuming.”

“Cool kids make pizza.”

Spock exhales deeply, already knowing he’ll surrender.

* * *

While Jim is a very good child in some aspects, he’s incredibly difficult in others. Spock keeps the house clean. He does the laundry, he washes the dishes, he tends to the yard and he does his best to pick up after Jim. However, he believes that a person should be in charge of their own quarters, and Spock requests that Jim be cleaner on more than one occasion. He asks Admiral Kirk for advice when she comms them, and she recommends ‘a firm hand.’

So one day, Spock finds Jim lounging on his bed with a handheld gaming system, and Spock clears his throat to draw attention. Jim looks over and asks, “Yeah?”

“Your room has reached unacceptable levels of disarray. I will not be cleaning it again.”

“I didn’t ask you to clean it in the first place,” Jim says, wrinkling his nose. “Just stay out of it.”

Remembering the admiral’s advice, Spock orders, “You will clean your room.”

“I will not,” Jim answers, in a mocking facsimile of Spock’s level tone.

Spock figured that might happen. “I am going to be at the dining room table attending to my studies. You may approach me when your quarters are acceptable, and then I will make you dinner.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Then you will not receive dinner.”

Jim’s eyebrows knit together. He’s obviously not used to Spock resisting him, and he says angrily, “Then I’ll get my own dinner.”

“You will not.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“On the contrary, that is an integral function of my assignment. As well, I am merely relaying the orders of your mother.”

Jim glares for a moment, then snarls, “I’m getting dinner; you’re hardly any older than me—I can take you.”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock says, “If you mean in a match of physical strength, you are mistaken. Vulcans are considerably stronger than humans, and I am taller and still older than you.”

Most illogically, Jim shouts, “Your ears look stupid!” And he throws a pillow at the doorway. Spock steps aside just in time, blinking and mildly in shock. He... isn’t good with human children.

He has no idea how to handle this, and now he’s embarrassingly self-conscious, and it’s bad enough that Vulcan children thought him unfit, but now, apparently, human children also find his appearance unfavourable. A little annoyed and a lot upset and trying to be neither, Spock says, “I will be at the dining room table. Please clean your room.” And he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Jim shouts something after him, and something else hits the door. Spock tries not to listen and heads for his room, gathering up his PADD and several data chips. The light in the dining room is better, and Jim tends to play his music very loud, and the walls between their rooms are too thin for Spock’s quarters to be ideal for learning.

He makes himself some tea and takes a seat at the dining room table, inserting the first data chip and setting in to read. The sun is low through the windows, red and orange.

It’s about an hour before Jim storms down, looking partially cross and snide. He demands, “Make me dinner.”

Spock puts his PADD down and says, “I will do so upon a successful inspection.”

“I cleaned ‘em,” Jim says. There’s something off about his expression, but Spock heads for the stairs, nonetheless. Jim doesn’t follow him. He assumes Jim’s fetching food.

The door to Jim’s room is closed, and when Spock opens it, he’s genuinely surprised at what he sees. All the dirty clothes are stuffed into the laundry basket, all the books are put away, the shelves are haphazardly arranged and messy but filled, while the floor is spotless. The bed’s even made, though it’s full of wrinkles. Spock walks through the room with his arms behind his back, occasionally nodding with approval. He’ll have to fetch Jim a special dessert.

When he leaves the room, he notices that his door’s closed, which he doesn’t remember doing. He opens it curiously, only to find his own drawers pulled out and his clothing strewn about the floor. His blankets and pillows are also on the floor, and his books and PADDs and scientific instruments are strewn out over his mattress. His chessboard is upside down.

He takes a deep breath. Jim is certainly... very mischievous.

It’s probably too late to stop Jim from eating, and Spock doesn’t actually want to physically dominate him. So Spock opts to stay upstairs and clean his own room, carefully putting things away and righting everything back to normal. It takes him about half an hour.

Then he returns downstairs to find Jim in the living room, feet on the coffee table and ice cream tub in his lap.

Spock doesn’t know what to do, so he merely says, “I am very disappointed in you.”

Jim sticks out his tongue like he did when they first met and returns to watching the viewscreen.

* * *

When summer vacation comes, Jim clearly misses school. The weather’s unbearably hot, and he doesn’t play outside much. He spends a lot of days on the couch or next to the fridge, even though Spock is constantly fixing the temperature controls and doing his best to keep Jim happy. Vulcans can endure higher temperatures. Even though Jim is a brat sometimes, Spock would rather be too cold himself than have Jim be uncomfortable.

One day, they’re sitting on the porch outside, under the awning, lazing about in the shade. They’re talking about other planets and what Jim learned in school versus what Spock learns in the Academy. Despite being several years younger, Jim proves to be decent company and a good conversationalist most days. Jim cuts into Spock’s explanation of Andorians to ask, “Can we get ice cream?”

It’s almost lunchtime. Spock shakes his head and says, “You have not consumed adequate nutrition yet.”

Jim rolls his eyes. He’s on the hanging bench swing, and Spock’s in a plastic chair in the corner. “I’ll eat a proper dinner later. Come on, it’s so hot!”

It is very hot. Spock still intends to hold firm, but then Jim whines, “Pleaaase?” And he clasps his hands together, his clear, blue eyes growing impossibly wide. Spock wouldn’t like to think himself weak to displays of human ‘cuteness,’ but apparently he is.

He finds himself sighing, “Very well. You may have a small portion. Just this once.”

“Thanks, you’re the best!” Jim explains, hopping off the bench with sudden energy. He races to the back door, but then he stops to turn around and say, “You know, Spock, I do like you.” His expression clearly says, ‘even though I’m difficult sometimes and I often say otherwise.’

Cheeks feeling a little warm, Spock says, “Thank you. I like you as well.” He means it.

Jim beams and disappears through the doors.


	2. Thirteen

The minute Jim shows interest in the car, Spock takes to locking the dashboard when he’s not driving. If there’s one thing he’s learned in the time he’s spent with Jim, it’s that Jim is capable of both great kindness and complete, unadulterated, illogical tomfoolery. As Jim could hurt himself in the car, even out in a relative desert, Spock flat out refuses to let him near it alone.

“But if you taught me, it’d be safe,” Jim whines. “C’mon, it can’t be that hard! I can see over the dashboard and everything!”

“That is hardly the only requirement to driving successfully,” Spock says, whilst pulling the chocolate lollipop out of Jim’s hand and tucking it back into the jar it came from. As Jim has done remarkably well in school and Admiral Kirk has confirmed it safe to reward him, Spock’s driven him into town and they’re in a candy store. Naturally, Spock researched beforehand the repercussions of providing a human child with too much sugar. Jim’s reward will be limited.

He points to a large cylindrical tin with chocolates drawn on the side and asks, “Ooh, can we get that?”

“That is much more candy than would be prudent for you to consume.”

Jim turns to Spock and rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to eat it all! You can have some.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “While I appreciate your consideration of me, I am not interested in this style of... food.”

Jim wrinkles his nose. “You’re weird, Spock.”

“So you have told me.”

They continue milling about the candy store, until Jim settles on some ‘gummy bears,’ which he then proceeds to happily decapitate to Spock’s mild concern.

* * *

The movie they’re watching is so ancient that it’s not in colour. A coloured version is available, but Jim wants to watch it in its original form. His mother likes old movies, he explains. It’s cool outside and getting dark, so the two of them huddle up on the couch with a blanket draped over their laps. As per Jim’s request, Spock has readied popcorn. Because Jim insists he have some, there are chopsticks at the side of the bowl for him to use, but Jim just uses his hands to shove fistfuls into his open mouth. It’s unpleasant.

But then Jim nuzzles into Spock’s shoulder and yawns, and Spock will admit that that is... mildly endearing. There is a great deal about the movie Spock doesn’t understand, and as the ‘robber’ ducks into an alley and the ‘cops’ pass, Spock muses, “It is unlikely that the pursuers would not see their target in their peripherals.”

“No, it’s not,” Jim counters. “Harry and Alice and I play cops and robbers on lunch break sometimes, and I miss them when they hide all the time. It’s ‘cause you get really focused, you know?” Then he pauses mid-chew, swallows abruptly and looks up. “Hey, are you calling me a bad cop?”

Brows lowering in confusion, Spock explains, “I was neither implying that nor are you a member of the police force.”

Jim snorts and turns back to the screen. Spock gets the impression he’s being silently laughed at, but he doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he watches the screen as the camera follows the robber, ducking into a civilian’s home to hide. The music softens. A young female comes into the room and screams, but the protagonist calms her down and quickly—and unrealistically easily—convinces her of his motivations. Spock raises an eyebrow and notes, “It is imprudent of this film to portray a convict’s point of view as the sympathetic one.”

“What?” Jim shifts around again. The light of the viewscreen silhouettes his side. “He’s the good guy!”

Raising an eyebrow, Spock states simply, “He committed a crime.”

“Against the evil banker!”

“That money did not belong to the banker. It belonged to the citizens of the town who entrusted their earnings to a community institution.”

Jim rolls his eyes. He does that quite a lot. When Spock researched it, he deduced that it’s merely a function of Jim’s young age. Once, Spock attempted to replicate the motion, but it simply made Jim laugh at him. “You’re over-thinking it. That’s not the point.”

“I fail to see what ‘the point’ is, in that case.”

“That’s right,” Jim smirks. “You fail.” And he settles back down to resume watching the screen, head on Spock’s shoulder, one arm around his, warm and clearly tired. “But I like you anyway.” He says it with a dramatic sigh, as though performing a charitable function.

Spock still thinks they might be bonding.

* * *

Spock wakes up at precisely the same time he always does. He brushes his teeth, has a quick shower—an old-style one; the house doesn’t have sonic showers—he dresses in a simple grey sweater and black pants, and he heads to the next room to wake Jim up.

Jim isn’t in his room. Concern automatically spikes in Spock’s chest, just like it always does when there’s any possibility that something, particularly regarding Jim, has gone wrong. He wills himself to be calm; being emotional won’t help the situation. He checks the master suite, then the bathroom, then heads downstairs. When Jim is neither in the kitchen nor the living room, Spock calls, “Jim?”

But he doesn’t get a response.

He checks every logical place. Jim isn’t in the basement or the ground level or the front yard or the backyard. Panic is starting to grip at Spock’s throat, and then he checks the garage. The car is missing.

He’s breathing heavier than he should be. He should be calm; panic won’t help. He’s mildly... mildly furious.

Where should he check? Town, probably; there’s nothing else Jim could’ve reached within the allotted time; he usually sleeps in. Unless he’s just out in the desert somewhere. Out in the desert. With nothing to protect him. He could’ve hit something or swerved out of control or fallen out. Perhaps he tried to drive himself to school. If there were time, Spock would initiate meditation before he begins to hyperventilate.

The console in the kitchen beeps. Spock instantly closes the door to the garage and runs to it, flicking the screen on immediately. An Andorian patrol officer is sitting behind a blue background, and he asks, “Is this the Kirk residence?” A mere formality; he’ll know what it is.

“Yes,” Spock nearly snaps.

“One of our officers reported a crashed vehicle registered to a Winona Kirk and driven by a James T. Kirk approximately four kilometers from your residence along the highway, east-bound. Due to his age, there will be no legal action taken. However, it is advisable that a consequence be imposed on him within the home.”

“Understood. It shall be handled,” Spock says. He tries to stop himself, but he asks, “Is he alright?”

“My colleague reports that the boy suffered minor injuries but does not require hospital admittance. Please remove him from the highway. The vehicle shall be towed to your residence as per regional ordinance.”

“I will retrieve him immediately.” Spock turns the console off and straightens, barely taking a second breath before bolting for the door of the house. He tugs on his shoes and sets to running. With the car gone, he has no choice but to jog his way there. It’s early and hot out, but not unbearably so. This worst part is, by far, the worry. He knows worrying is not a productive feeling. But he can’t help it. Jim’s hurt, and even if it’s minor, that _hurts_.

Even at his fastest speed, it takes entirely too long to reach the crash point. There’s barely any grass anywhere, and it’s mostly long shadows over hard, orange ground. Spock’s in shape but doesn’t exercise enough. Soon he’s getting short of breath, and his feet grow sore, Vulcan strength not enough for this distance and stress, but he doesn’t slow down. A hovercar passes him once going in the opposite direction. He sees it coming long before he gets there; they live in a flat, empty area. When he finally sees the familiar car crumpled against a rock with an officer silhouetted by the sun, Spock slows down to a more dignified speed. Jim’s sitting on the ground, holding one knee to his chest. He’s looking at the officer, probably getting a scolding.

But he looks up when Spock gets there. He shouts, “Spock!”

Then he’s on his feet, and he lunges at Spock, wrapping his small arms around Spock’s waist. He buries his head in Spock’s chest. He seems inordinately small and fragile, and Spock lets his arms wrap back around Jim, telling himself it’s for the child’s comfort.

The officer, wearing a full suit and a helmet that masks his species or any identifying features, asks, “You’re his guardian?” The voice sounds skeptical. Spock’s still young, but he’s recently become old enough to be, legally speaking, Jim’s guardian. Enough for Winona to trust him, which was apparently a poor idea.

Spock’s mouth is dry. He says only, “Yes.”

Jim says into his chest, “I’m sorry.” And he sounds a little scared, so unlike the boy Spock’s come to know. James Kirk is fiery and fearless, but he’s still thirteen. Spock looks at the car, rammed into a large rock just to the left of the road, and a knot forms in his stomach. That must’ve been terrifying. The impact alone has to have hurt. If he has any emotion, the correct one to express would be anger at Jim’s foolishness and direct disobedience, but instead, all Spock can feel is relief.

He holds Jim back and says quietly, “It is alright.”

“We’ll be towing your vehicle,” the man says. “You can take him home now.”

Spock glances at the officer’s ride, but it’s only a hovercruiser. Not enough to take another person on it. Spock nods and forces himself to straighten out of Jim’s arms, saying levelly, “I apologize for the trouble, officer.”

“Teach him better,” the officer grunts. He climbs onto his cruiser, nodding a goodbye to Jim. Then he takes off, and Spock spares another glance at the car.

Admiral Kirk’s car.

It’s ruined. Spock should be able to get it repaired—it might cost some credits, but his employment under Admiral Kirk should cover it. Still, he will have to report that it was heavily damaged on his watch. _Jim_ was damaged. That’s far more important.

Sniffling, Jim pulls back from him and asks quietly, “Are you mad at me?”

Shaking his head, Spock corrects, “I am disappointed.”

Jim winces. “That’s worse. Can you be mad instead?”

Spock exhales. He’s looking over Jim, who’s wearing a wrinkled pair of jeans, an old t-shirt, and a faux-leather jacket. There’s a rip in his jeans, and his knee is bruised and a little bloody. Spock notes that Jim’s leaning on the other leg. He takes a minute to answer, “Anger is not a productive emotion.”

“Sometimes I’m glad you’re Vulcan,” Jim says. That isn’t something Spock’s used to hearing, and he merely raises an eyebrow.

“Will you be able to walk?”

“Walk?” Jim whines. “All the way home?” When Spock nods, he grumbles, “Fine.” And he tries to walk past Spock, but he stumbles a minute later and makes a cry of pain, and then he turns and whimpers, “My knee hurts.”

“It isn’t broken?”

“The officer scanned me and said it was fine, but it _hurts_.”

Spock considers the situation. Jim’s probably hungry and thirsty. And tired. He will need to be punished, somehow. Spock will probably be punished too. Perhaps he will even be terminated. The thought makes him... very uneasy.

But he’s still feeling relief, and he’s mostly stuck in that. He walks over and bends down, reaching one arm under Jim’s knees and the other under Jim’s back, scooping Jim up in his arms. Jim squeaks and holds onto Spock’s shirt, gasping, “Wow, you’re strong.”

Spock says simply, “Thank you,” and he proceeds to carry Jim home. He has to walk slower due to the extra weight, but somehow, the trip seems much shorter. Jim apologizes again, and he promises not to do it again, and he wraps his arms around Spock’s neck to hold on. They talk a little. Jim’s a little shaky. Spock is too, but he does his best to be a comfort. Jim leans against him and nearly falls asleep.

Spock doesn’t want to be terminated.

* * *

Admiral Kirk must be very busy. Spock checks in with Starfleet’s communication center on his next visit to headquarters, but she’s unable to be reached. Spock brings home a treat from San Francisco, as Jim’s punishment ends today.

The car’s back and Spock had it fixed. Jim spent a month being ‘grounded,’ as per the instructions left in the admiral’s PADD. Apparently, she foresaw the need for extended punishments.

Tomorrow, Jim goes back to school. He was home-schooled as punishment during that month, which actually was as much of a punishment for Spock, as it required him administering academic lessons severely under his own level and checking up on Jim quite a bit. Tonight, Spock knocks on the door of Jim’s room, and when Jim answers it, Spock holds out the hot fudge sundae, which the teller assured him children especially like.

Jim’s face splits into a grin, and he says, “Wow, thanks!” He throws his handheld game console onto his table and grabs the sundae, helping himself to a large scoop.

Spock nods. “You did well on your punishment.”

“And I can go back to school tomorrow?” Jim checks around a mouthful of ice cream.

“You may.”

Jim grins. He spent some time being sullen, another chunk being rebellious, but a lot of the time he was simply resigned to it. He knows what he did was wrong. He cried on Spock’s shoulder when Spock patched up his knee, and now he seems embarrassed whenever he gets reminded of it. He sticks out his tongue and asks, “Are you going to miss me?”

Spock raises an eyebrow and says, “Enjoy your sundae.” Then he turns abruptly and walks down the hall. He can hear Jim scrambling after him, but he doesn’t stop until he’s reached the couch in the living room, where he sits down and picks his PADD back up, ready to return to studying. Jim plops down on the couch beside him.

“You’re not allowed to be mad at me anymore after this. I did my time.”

“I was not mad at you.”

“You’re not allowed to be disappointed in me then or whatever.”

Spock opens his file on the PADD, scrolling through data to find his place. He hasn’t been disappointed in Jim for a while. Even when Jim was difficult during this time, Spock understands that being under house arrest would be a difficult thing for a social child, although Spock himself would’ve enjoyed it at Jim’s age. Jim isn’t Spock. He sighs and leans on Spock’s shoulder while he eats, and Spock continues to study.

After a while, Spock allows Jim to put on an old television show he likes, and eventually, Jim falls asleep.

* * *

In theory, Spock should be getting a lot more studying done now that Jim is out of the house. He’s staying at a friend’s for the night, despite Spock’s misgivings. He doesn’t know the parents of the other child, but from what he understands, ‘sleepovers’ are standard human practice for children of Jim’s age. It still makes Spock... nervous.

He receives a comm at nineteen hundred hours. He takes it on the kitchen console, and straightens his hair in the bathroom mirror beforehand and is sure to smooth out his shirt. He doesn’t know if the parents will be on the other end, but even with Jim, he wants to make a good impression. Why, he can’t precisely explain.

Jim’s a wreck on the other side. He’s got a pinkish substance in his ruffled blond hair, and his white shirt is smudged with the same condition. Hopefully, it’s just paint. He smiles at Spock and says, “Hey!”

“Hello,” Spock responds.

Another boy of approximately Jim’s age pops up behind him, with brown hair and pink and green all over himself. “Is that your babysitter?” the boy asks, pointing, as though Spock could be anything else.

“Yup,” Jim beams. “Spock, this is Bobby.”

“His ears look funny,” Bobby says. Spock’s lips thin, but he doesn’t respond.

Jim laughs loudly and says, “He’s Vulcan.”

“Boring,” Bobby judges with a crude display of disgust, face wrinkling up. “Do you have to be all logical and stuff?”

Jim laughs again and insists, “Nah, he’s cool.”

Partially to cover his internal warmth at that comment and partially to pull attention from this Bobby person, Spock asks, “Are you well, Jim?”

“Are you well, Jim?” Bobby mocks in a robotic sort of voice. Jim promptly breaks out into hysterics, nearly falling out of his chair. Bobby smirks broadly, and a few other childlike voices chime in from the background.

“I’m fine, Spock,” Jim says between fits of giggles. “Just like I told you I’d be. Pick me up by the fountain in town tomorrow?”

“Twelve o’clock.” A part of Spock wants to say sooner than the agreed upon time, but he doesn’t want to embarrass Jim.

Jim, to his astonishment, says, “’Kay, miss you and see you tomorrow.” And he flicks off the screen before Spock can reply.

The house feels overtly large and empty.

* * *

For the first time, Jim’s late on his way back from school, and Spock’s mildly frantic again. He’s trying not to show it. He used the console of the local general store to call the school, and they assured him that Jim left their premises safe and sound with several of his classmates. The clerk at the store tells him not to worry; the bus is late all the time.

Spock’s distressed anyway. He stops into every store in the square asking about Jim, and then he debates whether or not to explore outwards in town or wait by the car. If Jim does return, that’s surely where he’ll go. Spock’s heading back for the general store to see if he can get in contact with the bus company, but then he sees a familiar denim jacket headed out the window. He darts outside in an instant, and Jim turns and slumps against the car as Spock approaches. “Hey,” he slurs, hiccupping once. He giggles at the noise, and Spock’s eyebrows knit together. He kneels down in front of Jim, holding Jim’s shoulders.

“Where were you?”

“Harry got some... some soda,” Jim lies. It’s obviously a lie. Spock can read him better than that. Something’s off about the way Jim’s standing. Spock pushes his bangs back to examine his eyes—they’re dilated.

Spock stands up abruptly, lips tight. “You are intoxicated.”

“I’m drunk!” Jim says loudly and unabashedly. “I had a whole bottle!” Why he looks proud of himself, Spock can’t fathom. At Spock’s obvious displeasure, Jim groans, “Aw, c’mon, Spock—I’m a man now! Everybody does it!”

“You are thirteen.”

“A man!” Jim repeats, punching the air. Spock is acutely aware that they’re in public. Spock pokes Jim’s shoulder merely to test his reflexes. Jim swats the hand away, nose wrinkling. He’s clearly off, but not so much as to do permanent damage. Spock feels the weight of failure anyway.

He shuffles Jim aside, opens the car door, and picks Jim up by the armpits, ignoring all protests. He tucks Jim into the front seat and fastens his seat belt, repeating the usual, “I am very disappointed in you.”

“Aww, what?” Jim groans, as Spock walks around the car to the other side. “It was just one bottle! Bobby’s dad has like... eight... before he passes out.”

“You are never staying at Bobby’s house again.”

“What? You can’t do that! I wasn’t even at his house today!”

Spock repeats, “I am very disappointed in you.” And he is.

He looks at Jim before he turns the car on. Jim’s pouting and looking aside, arms crossed. Spock knew he was prone to rebellion, but... alcohol is a harmful substance, particularly for children, and Jim is far under the legal drinking age. Spock has the irrational urge to home school Jim permanently, despite the fact that Jim isn’t his child, and that’s hardly his decision to make.

Jim’s his companion, in a way. His roommate and, by all conventional definitions, his friend. His _only_ friend. The thought of Jim showing self-destructive signs is more than mildly distressing.

Spock pulls out of the parking lot and gets back onto the road, the wheels kicking up dust. Jim ignores him for half the ride home, and then Jim asks, “Do you drink?”

“Vulcans do not drink.” Spock’s head is swimming enough. How is he going to explain to the admiral about this and the car? He’s definitely going to be terminated.

“You’re part human, though, right? Did you drink when you were little?”

Spock spares a glance sideways and says, “I would not have wished to hurt my parents in such a manner.”

Jim looks upset and slumps sideways, glancing out the window.

* * *

Spock dreads the communication long before he gets it. It’s been a long time since the last one, and he lets Jim answer it first. Jim races into the kitchen, slipping on his socks against the tile and nearly knocking Spock over. Spock waits in the living room to give him some privacy.

Jim comes out about half an hour later, beaming, “Mom met a new species!”

Spock says simply, “Good.”

Jim says, “Your turn. Tell her I’m awesome.” And when Spock gets up and heads for the doorway, Jim grabs him and leans up, whispering quietly, “Don’t tell her about the drunk thing, okay?”

Spock says, “Go watch television,” and gives his shoulders a light push. Jim frowns but listens. There’s a part of Spock that would love to listen to Jim’s request, but the rest of him is too responsible. He’s not about to neglect his duties by leaving out an essential part of the report.

He’s frowning when he takes the seat in front of the console. Admiral Kirk is in her ready room, hair tied up in a tight bun. She’s smiling broadly, greeting, “Hello, Spock.”

“Admiral.” Spock nods.

“Jim adores you,” she sighs. “He might not say as much, but I can tell. He’s never taken to a babysitter so much. I’m very impressed.” That's a surprise.

“I am not so... adept in childcare as I am afraid Jim deserves.”

The admiral frowns, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Oh? He seems fine, and he tells me he’s doing well in school...”

“His grades are excellent,” Spock concedes. “He is in good health and appears to be functioning normally. However... there was... an incident.”

“An incident?” Admiral Kirk leans back in her chair, then sighs and drops her head into one hand, massaging her forehead, “What did he do?”

“I believe it was not his fault; he is young and I should have taken more precautions.”

“Spock,” Admiral Kirk says levelly, “What did he do?”

Spock hesitates for a fraction of a second before saying, “He commandeered your vehicle and hit a large stone.”

To Spock’s utter shock, Admiral Kirk grumbles, “Not again.” At Spock’s look, she rolls her eyes and explains, “He did the same thing when he was eleven. Part of me was impressed that he got through the lock, but the rest of me was furious. You punished him, didn’t you? How’s my car? Obviously he’s alright, I assume.”

“He suffered minor bruising but was not hospitalized. He was ‘grounded’ for one month. The car has been repaired.” Spock’s a little numb with how easy he’s getting off.

“I’ll have the credits covered,” the admiral says.

Spock feels inclined to add, “There was also an incident regarding alcohol last month.”

Again, she merely rolls her eyes. “Figured he’d get into that sooner or later. Just one incident with that?” Spock nods. “Well, that’s good, at least.”

Confused, Spock asks slowly, “So... I am not terminated?”

“Terminated? Lord, no.” The admiral looks momentarily distressed, leaning forward in her chair, and she says, “Look, Spock, I know my son is a bit of a hellion, but he’s never liked anyone as much as you, and frankly, I think you’re good for him. I know you’re setting a good example; he’s always been bright, but usually he barely tries at all in school and gets mediocre grades at best. The fact that he’s only gotten in trouble twice since my last call is remarkable in a very good way.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be out here. Please tell me you don’t want to quit.”

Spock doesn’t even have to think about it. He shakes his head. There’s a growing ball of relief in his chest. He knows he’s grown attached to Jim in ways he never expected, and he says in all sincerity, “Thank you, Admiral.”

She says, “No, thank you, and I do apologize for him. I meant it. Despite everything, he really does like you.”

Spock’s not sure he believes that. It’s still... nice.

Better than nice. He salutes her, and she signs out. Jim shows up in the doorway a moment later, wrinkling his nose and asking, “Am I in trouble?”

For a moment, Spock is quiet.

Then he says, “Would you like some ice cream?”


	3. Fourteen

In general, Jim’s been easier this year. Perhaps it’s that Spock’s growing with him and finds this more... natural... with each year. Jim does extremely well in school. He brings home his midterm with all As, even though there were plenty of times where Spock was concerned he was becoming unfocused. He leans over Spock’s shoulder while Spock plugs the data chip into the console and examines it, eyebrows rising at each mark.

Spock glances over his shoulder and says, “I am very proud of you.”

Jim smirks. “Really?”

Spock nods. “I am quite sure your mother will be too.”

Jim shrugs, like Spock’s approval is all he needs. He drops his backpack on the floor, and for once, Spock lets it stay there. Jim heads to the living room, and though he didn’t ask for it, Spock prepares a snack. Pizza rolls: one of Jim’s favourite. They’re bite sized and come out of the oven hot. Spock settles next to him on the couch and hands the plate over. Jim, still grinning, says, “Thanks.” He pops one into his mouth, and he says loudly around his mouthful, “Pause.” The viewscreen pauses.

Turning around in the couch and taking the plate onto his lap (due to the lack of utensils, it’s obvious Spock isn’t planning on having any), Jim says, “What are you going to do when you grow up?”

Spock raises an eyebrow and says, “I am working towards being a productive member of Starfleet.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I mean what specifically?”

Spock thinks a moment before settling on, “A science officer of some sort, preferably.”

Jim nods. “Cool. I’m going to be a captain.”

That’s not particularly surprising, but Spock still feels a small smile twitch at the edge of his lips: surely a Jim-influence. That’s Jim all over, skipping everything else and heading straight for the top. After a moment, Spock decides, “You do have the grades for it.”

“I’d be an awesome captain,” Jim continues. “Everyone would love me. You could be on my ship, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“My dad was in Starfleet, too.” Spock goes quiet; Jim rarely talks about his father. “He was a captain for a bit. Mom was too, obviously. I guess Starfleet’s in my blood. But I’ll be the best at it yet. Right?”

“You can do anything you put your mind to,” Spock says. “Although to be a great captain, you would need to learn to follow rules a bit more strictly.”

Jim snorts. “Says you.”

“Says Starfleet.”

“It won’t be saying that when I’m through with it. ...Are you going to be on my ship or not?”

Resisting the bizarre urge to smile again, Spock says sincerely, “I would be honoured to serve on your ship.”

Jim grins very, very wide. Then it falters a little, and he quiets, asking more seriously, “Do you think we could work together someday?”

Spock nods. “Our age difference is not so far apart. It will seem smaller when you are older. It is not impossible for us to work together at some point.”

He’d like that too, even if he doesn’t say that.

Jim goes back to smiling and turns back to the viewscreen, mumbling around his newest mouthful, “Good.”

* * *

Jim’s visiting friends in town, and Spock stays in the parking lot by the square. Behind the general store, Jim and his friends are playing some sort of game out in the open field, kicking around a rubber ball. Spock spends some of the time on his PADD and some of the time just watching Jim. Once, he gets thirsty and stops to get water.

Then he walks onto the field, doing his utmost to ignore the half a dozen other children, and he calls, “Jim!”

Jim ignores him for a few minutes, then spots him and kicks the ball away. Jim has the ball the majority of the time. He jogs over, already whining, “We’re not done yet!”

“It is hot. You need to remain hydrated.” He holds out the water bottle in his hand, and Jim rolls his eyes but takes it.

He takes a large gulp, spills a little down his front, laughs at himself and puts the bottle on the ground. He says, “Thanks,” and jogs back to join in. Feeling out of place, Spock walks back to the car, not distinguishing the other childrens’ comments on purpose. The metal of the car is nearly on fire, but Vulcans can handle higher temperatures. It’s still unpleasant.

He returns to watching the game, not quite understanding the scoring system, but involved nonetheless. He finds himself irrationally invested in Jim’s progress, proud when Jim retains the ball for most of it, and prouder whenever Jim kicks the ball to the left side of the field and elicits cheers from all his friends.

There’s a fleeting moment where Spock thinks of his own parents, particularly his father, and if Sarek ever felt this way about him.

By the time Jim finishes, the shadows are much longer than when they started. The group of children sit in the middle of the field and chat for a bit, then Jim stands up and brushes himself off, and he jogs back to the car. Spock lowers his PADD at Jim’s approach, and Jim pants, “Thanks for waiting! I had so much fun. We should play more sports.”

“I will drive you into town any time you so need,” Spock says, starting the car. Jim climbs in, shaking his head.

“Nah, I meant you and me.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. It is unlikely Jim would be able to defeat him in any show of physical strength or speed, but Jim’s ever confident. When Spock doesn’t answer, Jim smirks and taunts, “What’s the matter? Scared I’ll kick your ass?”

The car pulls out of the parking lot. Spock drives them home.

* * *

Jim’s ecstatic. Why, Spock doesn’t fully understand. Jim likes his friends and seems to enjoy seeing them at school every day, so summer vacation shouldn’t be a point of pleasure. But Jim’s nearly bouncing off the walls, and he runs around the house in his socks, shouting, “I’m free!”

Spock sits in the kitchen and examines Jim’s report card—stunning grades, of course. Spock makes particular note of Jim’s Physics mark, which suffered earlier in the year, but Spock helped him study and apparently it helped Jim improve. After scouring the instructors’ comments, Spock turns on his console and relays the data, encrypted, of course, to Starfleet. They acknowledge receipt and promise to make sure Admiral Kirk receives it. Jim skids to a halt behind him, nearly knocking him out of his chair.

Straightening out, Jim says, “Sorry, these floors are slippery. Let’s eat ice cream on the porch—no, wait! I wanna watch a movie! Or maybe...” He trails off, looking around absently, as though seeing the house for the first time. It was somewhat like this last year, but Jim was smaller then. “How about we go into town and celebrate?”

“This is hardly an occasion to celebrate.” Spock stands up and pushes the chair into the table, and when Jim scrunches his face up, Spock clarifies. “Are you not going to miss your friends?”

“Of course, but I’ll still see them sometimes.”

“You will not on an everyday basis as is customary during the semester.”

“I’ll see you on an everyday basis.” Grinning broadly, Jim adds, “I mean, you suck at soccer, but I’ll teach you eventually.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. He does not ‘suck’ at soccer.

Jim helps himself to a Popsicle in the freezer. Due to the occasion, Spock doesn’t stop him. They sit on the porch, and the afternoon sun is warm enough that Jim’s dessert melts all over his fingers before he eats it.

* * *

It starts off with a simple, “Why don’t we ever eat anything Vulcan?”

And Spock responds, “Because I do not believe you would enjoy Vulcan dishes.”

“But that’s not fair to you. You eat my food all the time.” After a pause, he adds, catching the ‘soccer’ ball under his shoe, “I could handle it.”

“I do not doubt that you could. Whether or not you would enjoy it is another matter, and there is no sense wasting food you will not enjoy.”

“You make me eat food I don’t enjoy all the time.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“It is nutritious.”

Jim picks the ball up. Evidently, their game has ended. Spock walks over to him, and Jim asks, “Is Vulcan food not nutritious?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Let’s go out for dinner tonight. I want something Vulcan.”

Spock is well aware that it doesn’t work that way, but he follows Jim into the house. Jim goes upstairs to change out of his dirty clothes, despite Spock not saying yes, and Spock settles down at the kitchen console, cycling through store records. There is no notable Vulcan population in their area, so it can’t be assumed that any restaurants would serve cuisine from his homeworld. By the time Jim comes back down, Spock’s found synthesizer chips at a novelty shop a few blocks into town. As Spock leads the way to the car, Jim asks, “Can we try something Klingon, while we’re at it?”

“Klingon food is very difficult to replicate,” Spock explains. “It is often served live.”

“Can we make it ourselves?”

“We could substitute worms and it might have a similar texture to certain dishes, yes.”

“Worms?” Jim makes a face, climbing into the passenger seat. “Klingons eat worms?”

“Essentially.”

“Disgusting.”

Spock agrees, but he doesn’t say anything. Diplomatic relations with Kronos are stringent at best, but that’s no excuse for rudeness. They back out of the garage and turn onto the highway, and Spock explains, “We will have to pick up the synthesizer chips and return home to prepare them. It would be advisable for you to choose something as a backup.”

“Nope.”

By the time they reach town, Jim’s changed his mind. Spock buys him a bag of dried fruit for him to munch on while they browse synthesizer chips, and Jim picks out a recipe for Plomeek soup. When they purchase it, the teller asks, “Is that any good?”

Spock merely answers, “If you are Vulcan, yes.” Because despite what Jim seems to think, different species tend to have very different tastes.

Jim holds onto Spock’s arm and tells her, “We’re Vulcans.”

The teller smiles indulgently. Spock raises an eyebrow but feels no need to correct the lie—it’s obvious that Jim’s human. As they head back to the car, Spock says, “You should not lie.”

Jim shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Did you ever get teased for being Vulcan?” It’s a very random statement, but so are a lot of things that come out of Jim’s mouth. Spock closes the car door and hands Jim the chip to hold onto so he can put his own hands on the wheel. It’s a very broad statement that could get into so many things.

Spock says deliberately, “No. I was raised on Vulcan.”

“Oh yeah,” Jim says, as though he somehow forgot. Spock intends for Jim to drop the subject, but Jim simply continues staring at him, clearly wanting more. It’s a long drive. For several minutes, Spock focuses on the road.

Then Jim wins out, as he so often does, and Spock says, “I was teased for being part human.”

“Oh.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Jim’s hand lands on his shoulder. It’s bigger than the last time Spock felt it—Jim seems to be growing every day. “That sucks. If I was there, I would’ve beaten them up.”

Spock experiences a minor twinge of amusement and warmth. He neglects to mention his own such inclinations and instead says, “That would not be a productive solution.”

“Nope, but it’d be a just one.”

“If you intend to join Starfleet, you may have to reexamine your view of justice.”

Jim’s hand slips away. He announces firmly, “Don’t care. You’re my friend. If anyone messes with you, I’m going to beat them up.”

Ludicrous, of course, because now Spock is quite old enough and restrained enough to handle his own battles. It’s also unlikely now that such a situation will arise; other than Jim, all Spock ever sees are his Academy peers. And the thought of Jim getting in a fight over him and becoming injured because of him is... very distressing. Because it’s unlikely to ever occur, he doesn’t say anything.

He lets them drive mostly in quiet, until Jim demands a loud song on the radio.

By the time they get home, Jim’s hungry again. Spock puts the Plomeek soup recipe in the synthesizer and serves one bowl to each of them at the dining room table. Jim swirls the light broth around with his spoon, commenting, “It doesn’t smell like anything.”

“It is not meant to be inhaled.” Spock raises his spoon to his lips, blowing on it to cool it down. Jim hesitantly does the same.

Then he shoves it into his mouth, wincing preemptively as though sure it’ll be disgusting.

Instead he pulls the empty spoon out a second later. “It tastes like water.”

“Vulcan dishes are comprised of subtleties.”

“Bland,” Jim says. He stirs it a bit and takes another sip but plainly has the same reaction. He shrugs and continues to drink it without complaint, which is more than can be said for many of their meals. The gesture isn’t lost on Spock.

They eat in silence for a while, until Jim says, “I could be a Vulcan if I wanted to.”

“That is debatable.”

“...Yeah, I’d probably beat too many people up.”

Reminded of their earlier conversation, Spock catches himself trying to stifle a warm smile. Living on Earth is corrupting him.

Synthesized food is never quite like the real thing. It still makes him think of home, or at least, what home used to be.

* * *

Jim’s new semester includes a biology class that covers human puberty, which couldn’t come sooner. Jim’s been growing all this time, but certain things are extra noteworthy. He needs all new clothes, he begins to show signs of rebellion again for no apparent reason, and his voice starts to ‘crack,’ as Admiral Kirk puts it. She just laughs and says, “About time.” But Spock finds it mildly disturbing.

Jim isn’t quite... as _cute_ as he used to be. It’s a strange concept, not one Spock’s used to. Adorability isn’t usually something on his radar. However, some days he misses a younger Jim, more bright-eyed and trusting and able to be carried. Now if Spock tried to scoop him up and carry him to his room, it would probably result in a fistfight. And then Jim starts coming home with all sorts of questions, and Spock’s new most redundant phrase becomes, “Ask your mother.”

“Gross, she’s my mom. And she’s a girl; she won’t get it,” Jim whines. “This is like... man stuff!”

“‘Man stuff’ should be covered in the classroom.” Spock returns to his PADD, going over a recent study of Rigelian grey octopi for a report due on Friday. Jim plops down beside him and throws his feet onto the coffee table, and Spock notes with displeasure that he’s wearing his shoes inside. These things are by no means happening all at once, but sometimes they feel that way.

“Does it keep growing?”

Spock looks sideways, but Jim isn’t holding up or pointing to anything. Confused, Spock repeats, “It?”

“You know. _It_.” Spock doesn’t know, and Jim must see that, because he rolls his eyes. But for once, Jim looks just as uncomfortable as Spock often does in these situations. He ends up grumbling, “Never mind.” And he gets off the couch and heads for the door.

“Jim.”

Jim pauses in the doorway, looking around.

“I have neither particularly decent knowledge on the process of human puberty nor human adolescence. However, you should know that you may come to me any time you need, and I will be there for you. I may not have the initial answers, but I could conceivable obtain them.”

Jim snorts. It looks like he wants to keep laughing, but instead he says, “Thanks. I’ll just ask Rob tomorrow.”

Spock frowns, mentally picturing Jim’s friends and deciding aloud, “It is unlikely your peers will be able to answer you with any degree of accuracy.”

Jim asks, completely out of the blue, “Is it better to wear boxers or briefs?” When Spock looks surprised, Jim fills in, “Mr. Henderson said one was better for your sperm count, but I can’t remember which.”

His sperm count. He’s fourteen. Spock’s not even sure Jim fully understands what that means. Frown visibly deepening, Spock says, “That is hardly something you should be concerning yourself with at your age. However, in the interest of providing you with knowledge, I will do the required research and relay my findings.”

Jim says, “Cool.” He disappears through the doorway, while Spock puts octopi on hold in favour of human undergarments.

* * *

There’s a place in town they go to for haircuts, and Jim usually insists they get them done at the same time. Jim doesn’t mention it this time, but Spock arranges a double appointment, anyway. In the past, he cut his own hair. He adjusted to suit Jim, and now he’s used to it. There’s no preamble as they climb into glossy chairs side by side; they always get ‘the usual.’

Except today, Jim asks the young female who comes up behind him, “Can I get cornrows?”

Spock’s head snaps to the side instantly. The stylist behind him steps back, and the one behind Jim glances at Spock, grinning. Spock repeats, “Cornrows?”

“A kid in my History class has them,” Jim says. “They look really cool.”

Behind Jim, the stylist brings over and holds up an image on a PADD. Seeing her reflection in the mirror, Jim turns around in his seat and says, “Yeah, like that.”

Spock’s frowning. “I do not think your mother would approve of that look.”

“So? She’s not here.”

“It is my duty to act in her interest.”

Jim says challengingly, “There’s no logical reason I can’t have cornrows.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together, mildly shocked. Jim’s stylist giggles. Jim’s yet to employ that tactic with him, and technically, it’s not incorrect. In Spock’s personal opinion, these ‘cornrows’ would look ridiculous on Jim, who’s never done anything beyond a few lazy ‘spikes’. But Spock’s opinion is not a contributing factor to Jim’s overall well being. Spock would think he’d be teased at school for such a wildly different appearance, but apparently, children at school already approve of the look. Because Spock’s unwilling to say that he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t say anything. Jim’s stylist adds, “Your hair’s a bit short for it, but I can do my best.”

Smirking at her, Jim settles back in his chair. He gets cornrows.

They look terrible. He wants Spock to get something similar. Spock ignores him. 

A week later, Jim gets bored and makes Spock pull the cornrows out.

* * *

Jim’s at a friend’s. He went there straight after school, and he’s sleeping over. This gives Spock an opportunity to spend a day at the Academy, catching up in person and attending a few seminars. It feels strange to be back; his visits are very infrequent and always during Jim’s school hours. Once, he passes a human who shared a dormitory with Spock several years ago. He’s sitting in the courtyard and doesn’t acknowledge Spock, even when Spock engages in the human custom of waving. Spock gets a chance to personally hand in a report he did to a landed captain—the current captain of the USS Bradbury.

The report is an outline for a training program, one to help officers practice dealing with no-win scenarios. The captain only has a chance to skim the PADD Spock hands over, but he appears impressed. He suggests that he’ll hand the information over to his peers, and they’ll discuss implementing it into the Academy. Spock feels honoured, but merely nods.

Then he’s told that Admiral Kirk has already spoken highly of him, and should Spock leave his current position within the next two months, a station could be secured for him aboard the USS Bradbury as a low-level science officer. Spock concedes to ‘think about it.’

But he spends the majority of the day missing Jim, fully aware that it’s been less than twelve hours and that makes this highly illogical. Spock decides quickly that the USS Bradbury is not the right ship for him, and it would be neglectful of him to abandon his current commitment to Admiral Kirk.

Jim’s getting too old to appreciate wrapped candies from other places, but Spock stops off at a candy story before returning home anyway.


	4. Fifteen

Jim’s starting to look less and less like a _child_ and more and more like a little _man._ That’s what he says he is, although Spock is stilling using the former term. It’s mildly disconcerting.

Sometimes it’s incredibly disconcerting.

They eat breakfast less together—Jim spends a lot of time in his room, and other times he likes to eat on the couch while zoning out to the viewscreen. Sometimes he’ll sleep right through breakfast and end up having to stay home that day; it would be disruptive to join class in the middle of a lesson, and he’ll usually say he wants to stay home.

Today he’s at the breakfast table for once, and he says, “We don’t talk about girls.”

As it’s a statement and not a question, and Spock has nothing to contribute, he continues eating his cereal. It’s a similar confection to what Jim eats, minus all the added sugars and dyes.

“I always talk about girls with my other friends,” Jim continues. “Why don’t we ever talk about girls?”

Spock doesn’t have an answer for this, as it’s not something he’s ever given any thought to. “We may discuss females if you wish.”

Jim laughs, like he often does when he broaches subjects with Spock that he talks about with others. Apparently, Spock has a unique discussion style. “There aren’t any good girls in my class.”

Spock raises his eyebrows. “‘Good’ is a subjective term. To which specific trait are you referring?”

“Hot and not completely annoying,” Jim fills in. “I mean, there are a few in our school I’d do, but I’d have to try harder for that since I don’t sit around with them every day, and that’s not fair.”

There are so very many things confusing and wrong with that statement that Spock doesn’t even know where to begin. Jim takes a few bites, and Spock looks to the side. A moment later, he says, “The classroom is meant purely for academics.”

Still eating, Jim says through his mouthful, “I figured you’d say that. I guess that’s why we don’t talk about girls.”

Spock nods. It’s probably best that they don’t. He returns to eating, and then it occurs to him that if Jim doesn’t come to Spock, he might get false information elsewhere, or even try something inadvisable and get himself in trouble. “Jim, you are too young for certain—”

“Auuuugh,” Jim whines, throwing his head back. It’s an illogical response, so Spock just has to wait it out. Jim’s head snaps back down, and he says, “Jeez, didn’t you ever think of girls when you were young at all?”

Frowning, Spock says, “I am twenty.” Which he still considers ‘young,’ especially for a Vulcan. Jim shrugs.

“You know what I mean. Boys, then? Something else? I know some people do that, but I just figured it was rare, so...”

Cheeks getting a little hot and hopefully not at all green, Spock says, “This is an inappropriate conversation for the breakfast table.” And not something he at all wants to think about. He’s enlisted in Starfleet and undergoing caregiving duties. No need to complicate that with distracting thoughts.

“So I’ll pop into your room later and chat about it then?”

Spock picks up his bowl and goes to finish his cereal on the porch.

* * *

One minute, Jim’s picturesque and relaxed, lying stretched out along the couch with the sun coming through the windows and highlighting all of him in gold. The next he’s bolting upright and shouting, “Hey, I was watching that!”

“You have been watching television for approximately seven hours,” Spock states. “That is entirely too long.” In fact, Spock feels a little neglectful. He should’ve come out of his own room to check more often, even though he does have a report due. Jim abruptly throws a pillow at Spock, who steps aside just in time. Then he stares at it, confused as to the intent.

“You can’t tell me what to do—who cares if I watch a lot?”

“I care. And as your caregiver, it is my duty—”

“Oh, shut up, Spock,” Jim groans. “Look, I finished all my homework already—I think I’m old enough to watch a bit of television.”

“Seven hours hardly constitutes ‘a bit.’”

“Well, they’re playing a marathon of one of my shows, and I don’t want to miss an episode!”

It still doesn’t make any sense to Spock how Jim could think himself in possession of any television programs, but he does do this quite often—refer to them as ‘his’ and imply that missing any installments would be detrimental to his health. Undeterred, Spock says firmly, “It is past dinner time. We should make something.” That’s his way of leaving it open-ended so Jim can still have his own fun.

But instead, Jim just rolls his eyes and says quite plainly, “I’m going to watch the rest.”

Spock blinks. “No, you are not.”

Jim shouts, “You’re not my mom!”

Spock, uncharacteristically flustered, demands, “Go to your room.”

“Fine, I’m sick of looking at your stupid bangs anyway!” And he throws himself off the couch and storms past Spock, while Spock remains in the doorway, having the unpleasant sensation of needing a mirror.

* * *

“When are you gonna teach me to drive?” Jim asks on the way to school, sprawled out in the back seat. He’s got his feet on the top of the door and his head on the seat: a completely improper way to sit. No seatbelt, obviously. Spock tried to correct him, but Spock’s learned that he can only tolerate so many fights a day, and the admiral’s advised him to ‘pick his battles.’

Spock misses the days when Jim would sit up in the front with him. It never seemed that important back then, but now that it’s gone, it took with it a certain charm. Spock says over the wind, “You will be of legal age next year.”

“To drive. That doesn’t mean you can’t start teaching me.”

“I will teach you to drive when you are of legal age to drive.”

There’s a noise in the backseat, and Spock glances over to see Jim leaning forward, arms around the passenger chair, glaring at Spock. “I don’t know why I assumed you’d teach me; you obviously don’t want to.” Before Spock can answer, he slumps down to the back seat again, kicking the back of Spock’s chair lightly. “I’ll just have someone else teach me.”

Spock’s stomach twists like it does whenever Jim mentions anyone else. In this context, Spock allows himself that feeling; Jim isn’t old enough to drive, and anyone willing to look past that likely wouldn’t be an adequate teacher. Without the proper instruction, piloting any vehicle is dangerous. “That would be inadvisable.”

“So teach me.”

“I will not.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. In the silence, Spock assumes he’s rolling his eyes. He’s quiet for the rest of the trip, and when Spock asks if his homework has been completed, Jim doesn’t answer. Admiral Kirk calls this ‘the silent treatment.’

Sometimes Spock thinks Jim would rather he resign.

But _Spock_ doesn’t want to resign, and other times he thinks that this little house in the middle of nowhere feels more like home than his own used to.

* * *

The town square is very open and mostly empty. When Spock pulls into the parking lot, he’s sure Jim can see him, so he doesn’t bother getting out. When he does this, he’s always told he embarrasses Jim. So he stays in the front seat and pulls out a PADD, waiting for Jim to say goodbye to his friends.

Except that Spock can see Jim in the rear view mirror. He’s sitting on the edge of the fountain, talking to two human females in summer dresses. They’re too far away to hear anything, but when Spock squints, he can clearly make out their smiles. Jim makes a hand gesture and both of them laugh, one of them playing with her hair. They’re probably about Jim’s age.

Spock’s frowning, and he doesn’t know why. He forces himself to look away, settling into the article on his screen. Jim won’t be long. He isn’t usually.

But today, he doesn’t come over for ten minutes. Spock turns around in his seat, glancing backwards, hoping to catch Jim’s eye, but Jim’s not facing him. He’s talking with the females. They seem to be completely wrapped up in whatever he’s saying. That’s not surprising. Jim’s capable of being very charming.

Spock’s always aware that Jim has friends outside of their home. It’s still strange to see him ‘charming’ people. Spock waits another ten minutes. He doesn’t want to leave the car. In his experience, interrupting Jim’s classmates doesn’t bode well for him. Human children aren’t any kinder than Vulcan ones.

But Spock’s an adult now, and Jim’s peers are no longer young enough to have no common decency, and after thirty minutes have passed since his arrival, he forces himself to get out of the car. He walks stiffly over to where the three of them are sitting, and he clears his throat, arms behind his back. The females look over at him.

Jim looks around. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Spock. I forgot.”

Spock says, “That is quite alright,” even though it isn’t. He nods at the females in a polite departure gesture and turns, walking back to the car.

Jim provides flowery goodbyes and runs to catch up, repeating, “Sorry.”

Spock nods. He’s half surprised to receive an apology at all, giving expected Jim to protest the interruption. He sits back in the front seat, and Jim climbs into the backseat, whipping out a PADD. He starts typing away on it, probably having a conversation with someone else. He’ll probably want a communicator soon. Somehow, that feels more personal.

Spock drives a little faster to make up for lost time, even though there isn’t anything waiting for them.

* * *

Dinner, Spock assumes, is at his discretion. Jim hasn’t given any input, and he did the same thing with lunch. Spock uses one of the Vulcan chips he’s stocked up, so Jim can use the synthesizer for dinner too whenever he gets hungry. Spock eats at the table alone, then retires to his room to work.

Music’s blasting from Jim’s room, but that’s par for the course. Spock tunes it out. He sits at his desk and pours over data on his console, perfecting another testing program to be implemented in Starfleet. It’s meant to simulate a Romulan trade negotiation and requires a full bridge crew to complete.

At twenty-one hundred hours, it occurs to Spock that he still has yet to hear Jim pass his room.

So he gets out of his desk, and he stretches his arms above his head, stiff from not moving for so long. He walks out of his room and over to Jim’s, where he knocks and calls through the wood, “Jim.”

Jim shouts something back, but Spock can’t decipher it over the music. He knocks again, and Jim shouts louder, “Go away!”

Spock bristles. He quells any reaction and asks loudly enough for Jim to hear, “Shall I bring you dinner?”

There’s some shuffling on the other side, and in the short pause between songs, something—glass?—clinks. Spock frowns at the door, knocking again, but there isn’t any answer.

He’s aware it’s rude, but he is the caregiver of the house, and he opens the door.

As soon as there’s a clear view to the bed, Jim jumps up, his shirt off and his pants hanging too low down his hips. The room’s a complete mess as usual, but Spock’s eyes snap to the nightstand, where two empty liquor bottles are standing. Jim’s got a third, half-empty one in his hand. Jim shouts, “Get out of my room!” And his words are a little slurred together. He picks up an old superhero figurine and chucks it at Spock, but it misses substantially. Jim’s clearly drunk and his aim has suffered for it.

Spock’s more than disappointed, and he storms across the room without even thinking, trying to grab the bottle out of Jim’s hands. Jim shifts on the bed and kicks Spock in the stomach, fighting to keep the bottle upright, but Spock just grunts and keeps reaching. They wrestle around for a minute before Spock inevitably wins, but not without half the bottle spilling all over Jim and the mattress.

Jim screams at the top of his lungs, “You never let me have any fun!”

Again without thinking, Spock shouts back, “Go to your room!”

“I’m in my room!”

Spock’s logic has all failed him. He has nothing to say that will get through to an off-kilter teenager, and he can’t say anything calmly. He tucks the bottle under his arm and proceeds to root around the rest of the room, looking for bottles. He finds three more full ones, and he confiscates them all, while Jim yells at him and says, “I hate you!” which he’s never said before.

It makes Spock’s blood run cold, but he tells himself Jim doesn’t mean it. It’s the alcohol talking.

Loud music blasts all night.

In the morning, Jim seems to have forgotten what he said, though he glares at Spock over breakfast. When Spock leaves to the living room, he can hear the cupboards being rifled through, but he already poured out the remaining alcohol.

Their age gap feels wider. Spock feels like his father. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

* * *

Spock gets a communication from Jim two hours early, and Spock immediately drives all the way to the school—the bus only runs after school ends. When Spock arrives, he isn’t the only car in the school’s parking lot.

Jim heads out to the car without a word. Spock asks what happened, and Jim just shrugs. He sits in the front seat.

They’re almost home before Jim finally talks, which is wonderful, because the mindless worry is mounting in Spock’s chest. “You know Robert?”

“Yes,” Spock says, glancing sideways. Jim’s got his arms crossed, and he’s looking down, backpack between his legs on the floor.

“His dad’s in Starfleet. Well, was in Starfleet.”

“Was?” Spock repeats. A parent of Jim’s classmate shouldn’t be old enough to retire, and it’s very rare that members of Starfleet are actually discharged. They’re nearing the house, and Spock taps the sequence into the dashboard that’ll open the garage door. He waits for Jim to continue, but Jim’s quiet while the car pulls into the shade. The lights in the garage are off, but there’s a little light through the windows. The door slides back down. Spock turns the car off.

“He died,” Jim says. He doesn’t get out of the car, just turns to look at Spock. “That’s how my dad died.”

Spock doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to do, so he simply nods. Jim sniffles. His eyebrows are knit together, and his eyes look a little watery, but it’s hard to tell in the low light. “You know, I never even met him. Mom used to tell me stories about him, and she said he was really great, but I’ve hated all her boyfriends, so sometimes I think he might’ve been like that. But... but I’ll never know... and now Mom’s out in Starfleet, and maybe she’ll... she’ll...” Jim breaks off. He makes a strange noise, and then he starts shaking, and then he’s crying.

All at once, he starts ranting, almost too fast for Spock to hear, and there’s water streaming down his cheeks. “I don’t even know why I’m so upset, but when they announced it it just sort of got to me and I got all sad for no reason! I didn’t even know Rob’s dad, not well, anyway, but I know Robert, and he’s my friend, and now he’s never going to see his dad’s face again! I never even got to see my dad; I mean, I’ve seen pictures, but it’s not the same; I don’t really know what he was _like_. A-and then I just thought about how Rob’s not going to have a dad and how I don’t have a dad, and maybe everything would’ve been different if I had. And now Mom’s so far away, and I hardly ever talk to her, and she’s in _space_. I always thought that was so cool, but if she dies I won’t even get to say goodbye! We probably won’t even get her body back! We never got Dad’s back—Mom wanted to get a grave for him, but I feel like, what’s the point? He’s dead and he’s not coming back. And then you’re going into Starfleet, a-and you’re going to... going to... you’re going to be on a ship all far away and you might... might...” Jim’s words become completely incoherent. The tears are getting in his mouth. He scrambles to take his seatbelt off, fumbling uselessly. Then he puts his hands over his face.

Spock’s chest _hurts_. Jim isn’t sad often, and when he is, it’s always far worse than any depression Spock’s ever felt himself. It’s hard to see someone he loves so much fall apart, and Spock doesn’t have any reservations about the fact that he _loves_ Jim. Even if they fight, he knows Jim loves him too.

Spock undoes his own seatbelt and shifts over, one leg sliding over the plastic cup-holder between them. He scoops Jim up into his arms, wrapping around Jim like he used to do when Jim was younger, though Jim’s almost the same size as him now. Jim trembles and lunges at him, grabbing at his back and sobbing relentlessly into his shoulder. He can feel it soaking through, and he only strokes Jim’s back lightly, pressing his face into the side of Jim’s.

Jim pulls back a few centimeters to gulp, “I don’t want you to leave me too.”

Spock holds onto Jim’s cheek and says, quietly and sincerely, “I will not leave you.”

Jim holds onto Spock’s hand. He nods, and he takes a choked sort of breath, and he licks his lips. His eyes are red. He nuzzles back into Spock, clutching at Spock's shirt. Spock rocks him gently, soothing, “Shh. I will not leave you.”

They spend a long time like that. Jim clings to him for a few hours, following him all over the house and sporadically talking, then seems embarrassed and tries to avoid him, then knocks on his door at twenty-three hundred hours and sheepishly asks if they can watch a movie together. It’s late, but Spock concedes.

Jim doesn’t fit into Spock’s arms quite the way he used to, but he still _fits_.

* * *

It’s a weekend, so Spock lets Jim sleep in. The house is a bit colder at this time of the year, so Spock adjusts the temperature in the living room panel and continues about his business, walking around the house with a laundry hamper. Jim’s become increasingly bad about leaving clothes everywhere, and he doesn’t seem to have any inclination towards cleaning them. Because it’s just easier to do it himself, Spock does.

Spock empties the hamper into the machine downstairs when he’s done, his own hamper next to it. He always washes Jim’s clothes first, as Jim runs out much faster despite having more clothes. He simply dirties things more often, or loses them, or outgrows them. It’s still strange to Spock that Jim’s become as tall as him. Their clothes are roughly the same size, though there are subtle differences elsewhere, and they usually aren’t the same style.

When Spock comes back upstairs, he finds Jim in the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard for cereal. He turns around to pour himself a bowl, spots Spock, and yawns, “’Morning.”

“Good morning,” Spock greets. Raising an eyebrow.

Catching that, Jim grabs the milk out of the fridge and explains, “It’s cold and all my jackets are dirty.”

He’s wearing pajama pants and Spock’s grey, knit sweater on top. The cut is Vulcan, and the triangular pattern near the top looks strange on Jim’s body.

It also looks vaguely... adorable. Spock’s not sure that’s the right word, but it's the best he can do. There’s something about Jim wearing his clothes that’s illogically endearing. He tilts his head, trying to memorize the image, even though he’s aware that he shouldn’t find any pleasure in this; it makes no concrete sense.

“Sorry,” Jim adds. “Do you mind?” He sits down at the table and waits for an answer.

Aware of the self-serving nature of it, Spock says, “You look very good,” and proceeds to fetch himself breakfast.

Jim grins broadly and says, “Thanks.”


	5. Sixteen

Whether or not Jim was ever taught by others, Spock isn’t entirely sure. Jim says he wasn’t, but Spock’s learned that humans are not always entirely trustworthy. He’d like to believe Jim.

Jim’s an exceptional driver for a beginner, though he goes much too fast when not explicitly told otherwise. They practice out in the desert, with Spock in the passenger seat and Jim’s hands on the wheel, his plaid jacket blowing in the wind and his face in a large grin. “How’s this?” he laughs, swerving back onto the highway.

“Your turning could stand to be more precise,” Spock corrects, “but you are otherwise acceptable.”

“I wish we had a hovercar,” Jim says. “They’re less noisy and don’t kick the dirt up.” He does another sharp circle, making Spock slide sideways in his seat. The car rolls off the road and onto the dirt, and Jim drives a little ways before turning back. “Could we go into town?”

“Tomorrow,” Spock concedes. “We will need to go over the bylaws in regards to traffic.” There’s never any traffic in town, not large enough to be noteworthy anyway, but there are traffic lights and other such things, and one can never be too cautious.

Jim makes a mischievous face, which isn’t so very different from his usual one. “And what’s to stop me from driving off there now?”

Spock could suggest the Vulcan neck pinch, which he could always employ if needed. Instead, he says simply, “My respect.” Jim sighs. They’re headed back to the house, and Spock’s a little surprised when they actually get there.

* * *

There are pros and cons to shopping with Jim. It is helpful to have the house stocked with food Jim will definitely eat and enjoy, but it’s also frustrating to have to put so many of his choices back. He tends to want whatever he feels like without any regard for health. He puts a bottle of wine in their hovercart and says, “It’s for cooking.” Except that Jim hardly ever cooks.

Spock gives in, only because he is aware of several Earth recipes that do involve wine he could try. He tells himself it’s better than the vodka Jim would probably get behind his back. Jim has a small allowance of credits from his mother, but he does talk about getting a job sometimes. Other times, he doesn’t have any interest—particularly when work becomes involved; he just wants credits. And he wants to lie around the house all day. He puts a strawberry shortcake in their hover cart, and Spock puts it back.

“C’mon, we should get a treat,” Jim says.

“Is that not what the cookies are for?”

“I’m a growing teenager; I need lots of treats.” Jim sticks out his tongue. Spock’s already walking away, and Jim follows him down the cereal aisle. Somehow, they go through an inordinate amount of cereal. Probably because it’s fresher than the synthesizer but more convenient and quick than other foods. Jim follows with the cart.

Cornflakes come in all sorts of packages, with all sorts of extras and all sorts of variations. The more sugary they are, the more Jim will like them, but Spock picks up a container with flax seeds and raisins, reading the nutritional information on the side while Jim talks.

“I think I’ll go to the Academy when I graduate. I don’t think any of my classmates are going, but I think Starfleet’s in my blood, and I do want to go into space.”

Spock nods. He always assumed Jim would join Starfleet eventually; Jim’s room’s full of model spaceships and posters of galaxies. If he applied himself and learned to handle rules a little better, he’d probably do well at it. He still maintains good grades, and he is exceptionally bright, even if sometimes his actions would suggest otherwise.

“Will you still be there by then?” Jim picks up a container with dried fruit and honey clusters in it. Spock puts his own container back in favour of examining Jim’s.

“That is uncertain. While I have graduated the standard science program, there are still plenty of opportunities to improve functions within the Academy itself.”

“Without going into space,” Jim clarifies. Spock waits a moment, then nods. He’s young. He thinks of these things, but the future isn’t something he enjoys discussing with Jim; children tend to not do so well with the open-ended nature of the universe, and whether or not Jim thinks he is, he’s still a child to Spock. Spock would prefer Jim stay stable and comfortable.

Still, he says, “There will be plenty of opportunities to explore space when you are of age or your mother has returned. It will still be there in a number of years.”

Jim shrugs. “A star could go supernova and kill a bunch of planets before you get to see them.”

“And a new civilization could reach warp capability in its stead. Patience is a required trait for Starfleet officers.”

“I guess I should start looking into programs.” Jim smiles as Spock deposits their cereal in the hovercart. Then Jim moves the cart tighter against the aisle, as a woman around Spock’s age shuffles past them. Jim follows her with a grin until she disappears around the end. Then it’s back to looking at Spock, like nothing ever happened. It’s strange to see Jim... growing up. Or maybe he’s already grown. Sometimes, Spock can’t tell where they are on the scale of _different_. Jim asks, “You’ll help me get in when I’m ready, right?”

Especially with an admiral for a mother, it’s unlikely Jim will need it, but Spock nods anyway. Then he thinks of Jim gallivanting out in space, speeding at the helm of a starship. He makes a mental note to, when the time comes, advise Jim against being a helmsman. Perhaps a navigator. That would probably be safe.

Somehow, they wind up back at the bakery, and Jim gets his cake.

* * *

Spock pulls into the usual parking lot, past Jim talking to a cluster of teenagers by the fountain. He turns and jogs over pretty quickly, chucking his backpack into the back seat and walking around to the driver’s side, which he opens before Spock can. Spock steps out slowly and straightens his shirt out. Then he walks stiffly around the car, trying not to show his trepidation on his face.

“I think I’m going to get a hovercruiser when I can,” Jim says airily, watching Spock climb into the passenger’s side. “Or maybe even an old fashioned motorcycle if I can find one.”

That sounds horribly dangerous. But telling Jim that would do no good, so Spock simply frowns. Jim takes them jerkily out of the parking lot, swerves onto the road, then turns onto the highway, the same one that goes all the way past their house. After waiting two minutes to see if Jim will correct it on his own, Spock says, “You are over the speed limit.”

Jim snorts, “Sorry,” and slows down a fraction. Spock shakes his head; Jim’s adrenaline obsession isn’t something he understands. Leaning back in the hot sun, Jim says, “I want to drive the car to school tomorrow.” He glances sideways to check Spock’s reaction.

Spock doesn’t want to say yes. He doesn’t want Jim to get hurt, and he’s also entrusted with the admiral’s vehicle—he really doesn’t want to report it crashing again. But Jim is legally old enough, and he did just get his license. The only reason Spock’s still picking him up and dropping him off is because Spock insists.

But there isn’t any fair reason to hold Jim back from a natural state of human development, so Spock begrudgingly concedes, “You may do so, on the condition that you contact me when you are safely at school.” He expects protest.

He gets Jim’s laugh, and surprisingly, Jim says, “Alright. But for the record, you’ll be embarrassing me.”

“Embarrassment is a small price to pay for the sake of safety.”

Rolling his eyes, Jim takes it. He keeps driving, and eventually he asks what assignment Spock’s currently working on. Spock explains in very simplified terms, proud when Jim understands most of it.

* * *

Spock beams home later than usual, having been held up by Professor Perry over a failing subroutine in his latest program. The lights in the garage are off like he left them, and, he notes with satisfaction, the car’s still there. Good. It’s much too late for Jim to be out, but that’s another subject they disagree on. As Jim grows, he seems to regard Spock less like a babysitter and more like a roommate.

When Spock leaves the garage, he heads straight up the stairs and to his room, changing out of his uniform and into his pajamas. He brushes his teeth in the bathroom across the hall, and he stops to knock softly on Jim’s door. When there’s no answer, he opens it a crack to check inside and make sure that he’s alright.

The bed’s empty. Frowning, Spock closes the door. Before he can even guess as to where Jim might be, he hears something from the living room. A human noise that Spock’s not sure of. Giggling, perhaps? Jim doesn’t giggle much, not that high pitched anyway. Not since his voice changed.

Trying to remain calm, Spock heads immediately down the stairs, walking to the living room with an increasing sense of dread. The lights are all off in the house, but the curtains aren’t all closed, and moonlight lights the way. As soon as he’s in the doorway of the living room, he finds Jim on the couch, curled up around a human female. There’s an image paused on the viewscreen, and Jim...

Jim’s _kissing_ the female. He’s got an arm around her waist. Both of her arms are around his neck. They’re half covered in a blanket.

They don’t even seem to notice him. Spock has no idea what to do. His first instinct is to run over and separate them, get that girl off Jim, _Jim_ , who he’s supposed to be raising and taking care of, but that would be insane. He should just leave. No, he can’t leave. They might get up to something irresponsible that would lead to horrible repercussions that Jim’s not old enough to understand. And it’s past twenty three hundred hours and they have to get that girl—that _child_ , she can’t be any older than Jim—home. Her parents must be worried sick. Spock’s worried sick. Jim’s growing up way too fast. It’s been years, but it doesn’t feel like it, not right now. Spock sees Jim sitting on the couch, and he sees a grown man and a twelve year old all at once, reaching out to hold Spock. That couch is their couch. It’s where the two of them sit. And now there’s some human female...

Spock has no idea how long he’s been standing in the doorway, because he’s been dazed into a nonsensical reverie. But Jim’s eyes finally open, and he sees Spock, and he pulls back all at once and shouts, “Spock!”

His companion makes an awkward squeaking sound, tensing up, but apparently Spock isn’t very scary, because once she’s turned around to see him, she relaxes. Or maybe it’s just that Jim clearly knows him. Jim’s mouth is opening and closing, and then he says lamely, “Hi.”

Spock repeats, “Hi.” Even though he usually says ‘hello.’ He opens his mouth. He should say that Jim is much too young for this, and he should go to his room, and Spock will drive his peer home.

Before Spock can, the female says, “Ahh... you know, it’s... it’s getting late, I should probably... uh... go home.” And she looks at Jim apologetically.

Jim looks disgruntled and disappointed, but he scratches the back of his head and nods. “Yeah, the mood’s kinda dead.”

“See you tomorrow in Biology?” She asks, batting her eyelashes in a way that makes Spock very uncomfortable because they’re aimed at _Jim_.

Jim grins. “Yeah. I’ll drive you home.”

“I will drive you home,” Spock interrupts.

But Jim ends up driving her home, though Spock sits in the backseat, feeling awkward and strange. The drive back is very tense and neither of them say anything. This is just one of those things that it seems like they’ll avoid.

* * *

Jim takes to 3D chess immediately. He isn’t very good at first, mostly because he’s too brash and doesn’t plan out the future. Spock considers this a good mental exercise for him and encourages games whenever possible. The main board is in Spock’s room, but it winds up moving all over the house. Once, they play on Jim’s bed and manage to lose a pawn that they never find again.

They go to San Francisco and buy two new sets, one for the living room and one for Jim’s room, although Spock makes him promise to take care of it. Even though Jim doesn’t use the transporters often, he’s been to San Francisco many times, both with his mother and Spock. They check in at Starfleet’s communication center, and they’re informed that Admiral Kirk will be within communication range within the next week. Spock suggests they visit the Academy, since Jim’s shown interest in attending.

But Jim says, “It’s the weekend, why would I want to think about school?” And he drags them across the way to a shopping center. There’s a joke shop he wants to go into, though Spock’s hesitant, because he tends to not do very well with the human sense of humor. “I bet you’d be really fun to prank,” Jim laughs. “I can’t believe I never did that to you when I was little. I guess I was just too mature.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock suggests instead, “Or perhaps it had something to do with the lack of a similar shop within your purchasing radius.”

Raising his own eyebrows challengingly, Jim says with a large grin, “You know, there’s nothing to stop me starting now. Are you familiar with the concept of a ‘woopie cushion’?”

“I am not.” And Spock’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to be.

Jim looks at the joke shop blissfully, watching the whirring gadgets in the window go off. It’s a very colourful display, though entirely nonsensical. Finally, he sighs. “Ah, I’m too nice a guy. I can’t do that to you.”

“Thank you,” Spock says dryly.

“I’m hungry. Do you want to go to the food court? I saw a Klingon stand; I still want to try some authentic Klingon cuisine.”

“It will not be run by Klingons,” Spock informs him, following Jim as they cross the square, milling through light crowds of pedestrians. Spock has both chess boards, folded up, in a bag under his arm. “And it will certainly not be ‘authentic.’” Spock says this partially because he’s no fan of Klingon food, but at least the food court has other options.

“There’s a salad stand,” Jim says, nodding across the way. “We’ll meet at the table there, okay?”

But Spock follows Jim to the Klingon stand, and Jim then follows him to the salad stand, and they find a small, white table, and eat and play chess. It’s one of those days that makes staying stationed on Earth somehow more favourable than the stars, even though nothing’s really happening. For the first time, Jim beats him at chess.

* * *

It’s twenty four hundred hours, and Spock’s all on edge. It’s right about Jim’s bedtime, or at least, the one that Spock imposes and Jim usually adheres to. But Jim’s yet to come home, and Spock finds himself sitting in a chair in the garage with a PADD, waiting for the situation to amend itself. About ten minutes ago he gave up and decided to wait in the living room. He likes to go to sleep earlier than this, but that isn’t an option when Jim’s out. Jim’s at a human male’s house for a ‘study session,’ despite Spock being fairly certain he isn’t in Jim’s classes.

The second he hears the front door open, Spock’s on his feet. He straightens out his grey sweater—he hasn’t changed yet—and he heads towards it as calmly as possible. By the time he gets there, Jim’s stumbling into the kitchen, fishing through cupboards for a glass. He turns around to the sink and gets a drink of water, and Spock’s heart immediately sinks.

“You are intoxicated.”

“Drunk,” Jim corrects. His voice is a little slurred and slow, but his wording’s coherent, like it usually is. He drinks his water and puts the cup back, slumping lazily against the counter, shoes still on and faux-leather jacket still around his shoulders. His yellowish eyebrows knit together, and he mumbles, “Why d’you look mad?”

Spock’s borderline furious and trying very hard not to be. “Driving under the influence is incredibly dangerous, not only to others, but to yourself. You could’ve been seriously injured. I am very disa—”

“I didn’t drive,” Jim says defensively, waving his hands. “’Car’s still in town. Harry drove me. Had a party at Helen’s. Man, you’re lucky I came home at all.” He ends with a sloppy smile, as though he thinks he’s being charming.

Spock cuts off his disapproving speech, but he doesn’t apologize for it. Seeing Jim like this is always painful.

Spock waits for Jim to leave the kitchen and stumble up the stairs. Spock says, “Your shoes are still on.” And Jim pulls them off and chucks them down the hall. Spock opts to correct that behaviour when Jim is in a clearer headspace. Jim wanders down the upstairs hall and turns into the wrong room, stumbling right inside and collapsing, face-first, onto Spock’s bed.

Following him and hovering in the doorway, Spock says, “You are in the wrong room.”

“Yer bed’s really comfy.”

“That is because I make my bed.”

Jim nuzzles his face contentedly into the blue fabric, stretching out. He shifts around a little so that there’s more room, though he’s still spread out, and he pats the space next to him. “C’mere.”

“It would be advisable for you to return to your own room.”

Jim gestures a lazy hand and says, “Nah, come lie with me. C’mon, we never _talk._ ”

Spock stares at Jim levelly. They converse all the time.

But he’s always had difficulty saying no to Jim in any capacity, and Spock inevitably crosses the room. He lies down on his back next to Jim, deciding to indulge Jim until he gets tired and retires to his own bed. Spock’s a little surprised when Jim sidles up to him, throwing an arm over his waist and sighing happily. Jim’s breath reeks of alcohol and washes, warm, over Spock’s ear.

Jim must be aware of how close he is, because he mumbles, “Remember that time when I was little, and I made fun of your ears?”

Spock remembers every moment he spent with Jim like jewels in a treasury. “Yes.”

“M’sorry.” Confused, Spock turns to look at Jim. He looks like he means it, eyelids heavy and cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol. He leans closer to hook his chin on Spock’s shoulder, and sighing, “I really like your ears.”

That... makes Spock feel warmer than it should. Jim’s warm all over him. Jim’s intoxicated and probably doesn’t mean it, but Spock says quietly anyway, “Thank you.”

Jim grins very wide.

He leans those few centimeters closer, sticks out his tongue, and licks right up the shell of Spock’s ear, right over the point. Spock startles instantly, jerking away and bolting upright. His ear’s wet and he clutches it, covering it. Jim stays exactly where he is, smiling leisurely. “I think they’re sexy.”

Spock has the inexplicable urge to put on a toque. He feels like a bucket of ice water’s been poured over him. Or maybe he’s been set on fire. Jim has to be playing a joke on him. It isn’t very funny.

Jim’s just drunk, Spock tells himself. _Drunk_ , not intoxicated. He’s not making any sense, and he probably won’t remember this in the morning.

Breathing too fast and shallow, Spock says, “Go to your room.”

Jim rolls lazily over, curling up into Spock’s pillow. “Imma stay here.”

He’s sixteen, but Spock could probably still pick him up and carry him away.

Instead, Spock leaves, and he hears Jim mumble, “Lights!” And then the hallway’s dark.

Spock mediates on the living room floor. Thoughts and emotions are bubbling up inside him, but he ignores them, lets them flow out of him, clears his mind and doesn’t let it get to him. Spending the latter part of his youth on Earth rather than Vulcan, away from Vulcan Masters that could improve his meditation, has proved detrimental in that regard. He ends up sleeping on the couch in his clothes.

In the morning, Jim sleeps in, still in Spock’s bed. When Jim wakes up, he doesn’t seem to remember anything, and he’s confused about where the car is. When Spock explains, he apologizes and calls a friend to pick him up later. Spock feels strange and awkward again, and he spends a lot of time meditating. Once, they’re sitting on the porch and Spock thinks Jim might be looking at his ears, and he feels self-conscious and thinks his cheeks might be green. Just the alcohol, he tells himself. Just alcohol.

* * *

Spock looks up as his door opens, and Jim, with a cookie shoved into his mouth, mutters around it, “Mom’s on the comm.” And he heads off, evidently having already talked to her. Spock puts his PADD down on his nightstand and climbs off the bed, heading for the stairs.

The console’s on in the kitchen. Spock sits in front of it, and Admiral Kirk is already smiling. “Good afternoon,” she greets him.

He says, “Good afternoon, Admiral,” back.

“Jim tells me he’s seriously considering Starfleet! You know, when he was younger, I was sure he’d never have the discipline for it, but he’s growing up into such a fine young man. If he sets his mind to it, I’m sure he’ll be accepted into and excel at the Academy. Thanks in no small part to you, of course.”

“He has done exceptionally well in school without my help,” Spock comments, and it’s true. He helps Jim out from time to time, but mostly, Jim’s just naturally very intelligent.

The admiral waves her hand dismissively. “Well, he says you did more than that. But he always talks very highly of you.” Spock’s lips twitch up, and he fights to control the impending smile. “But anyway, I have to apologize for how long this is going. When I started, I never thought I’d actually be out here so long. But we’re still not done. You have no idea how good it is for me to know that Jim’s okay and taken care of. Really, I can’t thank you enough.”

“It is my pleasure, Admiral.” And he means it, even though it’s not a phrase Vulcans commonly employ.

Admiral Kirk grins. “I’m glad. I’m going to be out here for a bit longer, I’m afraid. Is there anything else I should know about? Any questions, any problems...?”

A few come to mind. But Spock ends up saying, “No.”

And she moves the subject to his own accomplishments, and Spock explains, until she’s pulled away by her first officer. Jim wanders back into the kitchen, and they have dinner, and Jim says, “I asked Mom, and she said that even if she came back early, you could always still stay with us and rent out your room.”

Caught off guard, it takes Spock a minute to say, placing his spoon back into his soup, “There would be no need for me to stay in that case.”

Jim frowns. “Sure there is. You need to live somewhere, and you could still get back and forth to the Academy and Headquarters all the time, and...” He sort of trails off and takes a mouthful of soup before saying, “We could still live together.”

Spock would like that. He doesn’t like thinking of moving out, even though he’s hardly one to be sentimental about accommodations. He ends up saying, “Okay.” He’s flattered that Jim would want to keep him around. But he’s not sure that would actually work out, and the ‘okay’ is mostly just to fill the air. It’s an unlikely scenario that he doesn’t want to deal with yet.

He tells himself that, one way or another, Jim will need looking after while his mother is busy until he’s at least eighteen. When it’s time for desert, Spock indulges Jim and shares a cookie.


	6. Seventeen

Spock’s pulled out of his dream by a gentle rumble—it takes him one bleary minute to realize he’s being shaken lightly, and someone’s calling his name.

He lifts his hand to his forehead, rubbing it. Jim’s leaning over him. “You waited up for me,” Jim whispers, like that’s anything new. Spock frowns. When Jim goes to San Francisco, he’s supposed to be home by twenty-two hundred hours at the latest. And he’s certainly supposed to bring his communicator. Jim shrugs sheepishly and says, “Sorry, got held up.”

He’s wearing his favourite black jacket, and his hair, for once, is brushed neatly. Spock surveys him in the moonlight through the window; he looks particularly striking. It’s logical to assume he had a date.

He starts to climb onto the couch down by Spock’s legs, lying down next to Spock, even though there isn’t enough room. He curls his arms in anyway, sidled right up to Spock and barely balanced on the edge, and he sighs, “G’night.”

Spock grumbles, “Go to bed.” And he waits for Jim to move, because Jim is now in the way of his departure.

“I’m going to bed.”

“In your room.”

Jim repeats lazily, “G’night, Spock.”

“Jim.”

Jim cracks his eyes open. Even in the darkness, they’re so _blue_. Spock looks back into them, always finding it strange, the way Jim’s a _man_ now. The same age Spock was when he first came here, although Spock wasn’t really a _man_ then, not in the Vulcan lifespan. Lined up like this, they’re all the same size. Jim’s gotten stronger. He could challenge Spock in a way he couldn’t before. Spock expects that often.

But Jim finally sighs, “Fine.” And he gets off, groggily heading out the living room.

Spock waits a few minutes before doing the same.

* * *

Spock already reasoned he’d be this long, if not longer. He commed home to let Jim know, and Jim assured Spock that he would be fine; he’d make his own dinner and put himself to bed at a reasonable hour. Spock went back to work.

And now he’s done, so much later than usual, already into the new day, though the sun hasn’t risen. The garage is dark when he returns, and he’s quiet as he comes into the hall, walking first to the front door to deposit his shoes. Jim’s probably sleeping, and though he’s usually a very deep sleeper, Spock doesn’t want to wake him up. Spock’s already halfway up the stairs when he decides he’d like a glass of water, and he returns to the kitchen.

He’s reaching for the cupboard with the glasses when he hears it: a moan. Jim’s moan. Spock would know that voice anywhere, twisted into any sound, and this particular one makes his cheeks green immediately. His hand lowers, and then he hears another sound: something higher pitched—not Jim.

Spock should leave. Is seventeen old enough to be...? Are they...? There’s a lump in Spock’s throat. They can’t be. They could be. There hasn’t been another incident since the one last year, but Jim... Jim has been very flirtatious with females in particular as of late. Spock never had any reproductive talks with him. Surely, school would’ve. Jim’s a smart boy. He’d use protection, surely. But if he was that smart, he’d wait until he was older and he and the girl knew each other better, so surely they can’t be going that far...

Spock shouldn’t check. What could he do? But he has to make sure Jim’s okay. He walks over to the other side of the kitchen, listening carefully, and when he’s paying attention, he hears more sounds. It sounds like Jim’s okay. But Spock should... Spock should check. What if he’s being violated, or...

Jim never mentioned having a girlfriend. Why didn’t he tell Spock? Spock’s head is a wreck and his chest hurts worse. When he leaves the kitchen, he walks very carefully down the hall, and he peers into the living room.

Jim’s on the couch, stretched over a female, and there’s a blanket draped over them. Jim looks alright. They should’ve gone to Jim’s room. But they didn’t. Spock... backs away.

He forces himself to walk up the stairs. It’s not his place to interfere with Jim’s natural development. Surely Jim used protection, and if not, there are precautions they can take in the morning. Even aside from that, this is a big step, and Spock’s not sure Jim’s ready.

Or maybe he’s just not ready.

He lies awake in his room with the door ajar, wanting to hear Jim come upstairs alone.

He’s surprised when he does. Footsteps—one trail—walk into the bathroom—Spock can hear feet against the tile. His window’s open, and a motor runs outside. It could be a car passing on the highway.

Or it could be the female leaving. Spock doesn’t know if he’s happy about that or not. He wants everything to have gone well for Jim, but he doesn’t want her to stay, but it wouldn’t be right to send her home at this time of night (or technically morning) and Jim could do better than that. Jim shouldn’t be using females simply for copulation. Is that the human way? It’s not the Vulcan way. They deserve the courtesy of staying the night together. Everything’s a contradiction.

Spock pushes off his bed.

He puts on his robe and walks out into the hall, just as Jim’s coming out of the bathroom in his boxers. Jim smiles like nothing’s wrong. He yawns. He smells... musky.

“Glad you’re home. How’d it go?” His voice is sleepy.

Spock says stiffly, “I am thirsty.” And he walks past Jim, headed down the stairs. This way he can excuse himself to the kitchen without suspicion and subsequently check the living room. He doesn’t expect Jim to follow after him, but Jim does. That gives Spock the nervous feeling that the female’s still around.

Jim follows him into the kitchen. Spock can’t check with Jim following him, so he simply gets a glass and walks to the sink. Behind him, Jim asks, “Uh... when did you get home, exactly...?”

Spock takes a sip of water. This is an awkward question, as it’s specific enough that he can’t lie. “One hour, seven minutes ago.”

As though trying to calculate this, Jim looks up. Then he says, “Oh.” And he frowns. “Um, did you see...?” He just sort of trails off.

Spock considers using the vagueness to avoid the question. But he’s already here, standing awkwardly, holding his cup, looking at a nearly naked Jim shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat in the moonlight of their kitchen. This is going to take longer than he wants, he can tell. He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and sits down, and he says without looking at Jim, “I did not want to interrupt you.”

“Thanks.” Jim takes a seat across from Spock. Looking at him is unavoidable. His cheeks are red. “Look, I’m... I’m sorry. I met her in town, and we just got to talking, and she had this really cool hovercruiser, and... I guess I got carried away.”

Somehow, Spock’s mouth is dry again. He takes another sip of his water, and the appropriate question seems to be: “What is her name?”

Jim shrugs. “I dunno. ’Think it started with a J.”

Spock’s brow creases. That’s highly inappropriate. Jim shrugs his shoulders sheepishly. Scratching the back of his head, he elaborates, “I’m not really interested in her, I was just... experimenting.” He drops his hand. For whatever reason, the tightness in Spock’s chest has shifted. He should disapprove, but instead he’s... he’s mildly relieved, and that isn’t right. But it still happened, and Spock still feels a little inexplicably sick. Jim says, “I’m sure you’ll tell me that’s not how these things work, but hey, I’m young and humans experiment, you know? She knew; she was into it. I’m sorry about the couch. It won’t happen again.” Obviously, he means it won’t happen again on the couch. Perhaps in his room with the door locked.

Would that be worse? Then Spock won’t know. Isn’t he supposed to always make sure he knows where Jim is and that Jim’s safe? He knows he’s going too far, but he can’t help it, his gut, his _instinct_ , every part of him just wants to protect Jim. And strangers in Jim’s bed are a threat, whether an insignificant one or not.

There was something Spock wanted to check with Jim, but now he can’t remember. His memory is usually impeccable. Right now it’s sort of foggy, and he looks at Jim’s bare chest and looks back up at Jim’s blue eyes. Jim is interested and involved in females often; this shouldn’t be such a surprise.

Feeling numb, Spock climbs out of his chair. He’s still clutching his glass in his hand, probably too tightly. He says, “Please be careful, Jim.” And he leaves the kitchen, headed back to his bedroom, but he doesn’t fall sleep until the sun’s been up for a long time.

* * *

This job is a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it indicates that Spock has done an adequate job raising Jim; Jim’s grown into a contributing, productive member of society. It also means he’ll have his own supply of credits, so he won’t have to plead with his mother for more.

However, it also means he’ll be out of the house more often, and Spock’s already missing him. It’s only been an extra five hours—Jim went right from school to the novelty store in town, where he should be manning the counter. But that’s five extra hours that Spock spent alone where he normally wouldn’t. Jim’s often away to visit friends, but that’s different; those trips are ephemeral. This is a new pattern. Spock tries to only show his pride on his face as he walks through the sliding door, the little bell at the top ringing for him.

The shop’s small. There’s only two aisles divided by low shelves, and the walls are all lined with knickknacks: various treasures from other worlds. It’s easy to spot Jim; he’s over in the back, bent over a stack of boxes, a white apron tied around his waist. For a fraction of a second, Spock has the odd sensation of not recognizing him from behind. His golden hair glints in the light and his shoulders are broad, back strong. He turns around with the ringing of the bell, smiling. Handsome.

“Hey. One sec; I just have to put these away.” And he picks up two of the boxes, carrying them awkwardly back behind the counter. Spock walks over to take the third box, and he passes it to Jim, who says, “Thanks.”

Jim’s already disappearing to the back before Spock can say anything. There’s no one else in the shop, and Jim calls from some other room hidden by the slightly ajar room, “It was so slow! I mean, they told me that when they hired me, that it wouldn’t be like California stores, but still! I think I had, like... six customers the whole time.”

“The important thing is that you served all six of them well,” Spock offers, voice louder than usual to make sure it carries.

Jim calls back, “I love hearing you scream!”

Eyebrows furrowing, Spock insists, still loud enough for Jim to hear, “I am not screaming.”

“Then how am I hearing you?” Jim laughs. Spock opts to say nothing, as more loud speech might earn him more teasing, and regular speech would be out of Jim’s hearing range. Jim reemerges a moment later without the apron and with his backpack over one shoulder. When he reaches Spock on the other side of the counter, Spock grabs the backpack’s other shoulder and Jim’s other arm, forcing it through the loop. Carrying a backpack improperly could lead to back problems. Jim takes the nitpicking with a grin.

“Should you not wait for your replacement before we leave?” Spock suggests. He wouldn’t imagine it’d be wise to leave the shop unattended while still open. It’s Jim’s first day; he must not realize that yet.

He says, “Oh, uh... yeah, I guess.” And then he says, “Maybe I’ll get my own spaceship with the credits I get.”

“That would take many more years than you are likely to spend here.” Spock gives Jim a dry look; that fact should be obvious.

Jim just sticks out his tongue. “I know that, you killjoy. I’m just having fun.”

“I hardly see how fictitious improbabilities amount to fun.”

Sighing dramatically, Jim pats Spock’s arm. “You never understand fun. It’s okay; I love you anyway.” Spock isn’t quite sure how to take that, even though he’s fairly certain that Jim is teasing him by way of attributing his logic to a hardship. 

About four minutes later, a human male shows up, apologizing profusely for being late. Jim charmingly comforts him and tells him it’s alright, and then Jim and Spock head for the car, Spock vaguely wondering if perhaps too many hours at work would be bad for Jim’s studies.

* * *

Spock wakes up early to the sound of his door opening, and he blinks wearily at Jim’s bright, smiling face. Spock sits up on his elbows, realizing belatedly that it was one of those hot nights where he slept in only his underwear. He sits up properly with as much dignity as possible, pulling the blankets up around his waist. “Jim.”

“Happy birthday, Spock,” Jim chirps, perching down on the side of Spock’s bed, holding out a tray. There’s a glass of what appears to be orange juice and a bowl of cereal on it. “I know you never want to do anything for it, but I think we should go to San Francisco and celebrate.”

“As you just stated, I see no need to celebrate the simple passing of time.”

“I know, and I put up with that when I was little, but now I’m old enough to actually buy you things, and I don’t see why we can’t treat your birthdays the same way we treat mine. Now say ‘ah.’” And he holds up a spoonful of cereal, as though Spock’s suddenly become an invalid.

Spock skillfully plucks the spoon out of Jim’s fingers without spilling any milk and responds casually, “Thank you.” The cereal’s plain and un-sugared—one of his. He takes the tray onto his own lap and begins to eat, mostly just to satisfy Jim. It makes Jim smile, so it’s worth it, even if eating in bed is rather improper.

Jim lingers far longer than necessary, but eventually, he leaves to get his own breakfast. Spock puts his tray on the nightstand with the intention of dressing, but Jim reappears a moment later with his own bowl, and he sits on Spock’s bed and insists Spock eat with him. Spock still finishes first, and when Jim shows no sign of leaving, he pulls his clothes out of the drawer and leaves to the bathroom to change, even though Jim calls after him, “We’re all men here.”

A moment later, Spock returns with dress pants and a long-sleeved white shirt on, hair and teeth brushed. A shower would be nice, but it’s clear that Jim’s not going to give him that long. Jim, seeming to forget the dishes, grabs his hand and tugs him downstairs, headed straight for the garage. Jim’s wearing dark-wash denim and a blue v-neck shirt. He has a little bit of stubble on his chin, which is very odd for Spock to see—he usually shaves it off. Then it occurs to Spock that he never showed Jim how to do that, and Jim must’ve heard about it from school. There’s an acute sense of failure with that.

Jim must catch him staring, because he stops before getting into the transporter. “What?”

“It is nothing.” Nothing important. Spock tries to look away, but there’s nothing but _Jim_ to look at it in the dim garage.

“You were staring at my face,” Jim laughs. “What? Is the stubble bad? I thought I might try growing a beard.”

Before he can stop himself, Spock says, “I never showed you how to shave.”

“Oh.” Jim shrugs. “It’s not rocket science. They showed us at school, anyway. Not a big deal.”

“I should have instructed you.”

“I know you weren’t trained to have a little brother; how were you supposed to think of everything?”

Jim is far from his little brother; it’s an odd choice of words. But another thought hits Spock, and he asks, “Have you been using my razor?”

Jim’s cheeks turn a little red. “Er, sorry. I did before, but it was very rare; I don’t grow much and it’s light. But since I got my job I got my own; no worries.”

Spock nods in understanding. Jim could’ve asked. But perhaps it simply didn’t occur to him. It’s understandable. Spock glances at the transporter, expecting Jim to get on, but Jim doesn’t.

“So?”

“So?” Spock repeats, lifting an eyebrow.

“The beard.” Jim points to his chin, which is hardly anything resembling a beard. “Should I grow one?”

Logically, it shouldn’t matter. Starfleet will require Jim be clean-shaven, but he’s not in Starfleet yet. Spock... likes Jim exactly the way he is.

But he’d like Jim any way, he thinks. Though the stubble certainly looks strange on him. Spock has the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch Jim’s chin, feel the scratch of it. Instead, he says simply, by way of default, “Vulcans do not normally wear them.”

Sticking out his tongue, Jim says, “Alright, I’ll shave tomorrow.”

“You hardly need to shape your facial hair in accordance with my preference.”

“I know, but I want to. I know you’d grow a beard if I wanted you to, so it’s only fair.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. He can’t imagine why in the world Jim would want him to do such a thing, but at the same time, he does think that Jim might be right. Unwanted facial hair would be a small price to pay for pleasing Jim. It’s a strange thing to think about it.

Jim finally gets on the transporter, and there’s just enough space for Spock to join him. He taps the open console on the wall, and then they’re on the large transport PADD in Starfleet’s headquarters. They nod to the officer on duty, who smiles at them. Then it’s out of the building, and Jim slips his fingers into Spock’s, tugging him across the grass. It’s a beautiful day. The sun’s too hot, and Jim’s shirt clings to him. He weaves them through the people milling about, across the street to the courtyard: a shopping plaza they often visit. Jim doesn’t stop until they’re at the fountain in the middle, and then he turns, asking, “Well, it’s your birthday. Where do you want to go first?”

Nowhere in particular. Spending the day with Jim is sort of a present in and of itself, and Spock has no particular desire for anything. He could hand in his report to Admiral Pike, but then, it’s likely Jim won’t want to do any ‘work’ today. After a minute of silent contemplation, Jim gives up and says, “Well, we just ate, so we can’t do lunch yet. I need to get you something—we could just go to stores that are likely to have Vulcan things, unless you have something in mind or you want something else.”

“It is unnecessary for you to purchase anything on my behalf.”

As expect, Jim completely ignores him. Still holding hands (even though Jim’s palms are a little sweaty from the sun and touching used to be off-limits, back when Spock was more _Vulcan_ and touch-telepathy seemed something likely to learn in his future under Vulcan Masters), Jim heads off, pointing. “That place looks interesting.” It’s a small, old-style bookshop in the corner of the plaza, with pictures of popular downloadable novels and several vintage paper books. Jim’s not incorrect; Spock does have an affinity for reading.

They spend several moments inside, with Spock merely peering around and Jim trying to direct him, hand-holding again far more often than necessary. The shop is very small, with consoles at the front bearing download catalogs and many shelves in the back lined floor-to-ceiling with paper books. It’s hard to fit between these, especially with so many knee-high stacks on the floor, but Jim manages, single file and sideways. He somehow finds a little section in the back with poor lighting bearing Earth erotica, which makes Spock’s cheeks turn green against his wishes and Jim chuckle. “You’d probably find these interesting.”

“I have no doubt they are fascinating,” Spock answers. “However, that is a very different property than enjoyable.”

“Pfft. The whole point of them is to be enjoyable. Besides, the old school harlequin romance ones are hilarious. Oh, hey—there’s some recent stuff too—how about _My Pet Andorian_?” Jim pulls the book out before exclaiming a moment later, entirely too loudly, “Hey! _My Pet Vulcan_! Even better!”

Instinctively, Spock checks over his shoulder, but the clerk is out of view. Jim tugs the small pocketbook out and eagerly flips through it, and then he shoves it at Spock, chuckling, “Wanna read?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well, I’m getting it.”

“You are not.”

“I am too.”

Spock plucks the book gingerly out of Jim’s hands and pushes it back into the hole in the shelf from whence it came. Jim sticks out his tongue with that infuriatingly petulant look of his that indicates he’ll do exactly what he was told not to do the second Spock turns around.

For precisely two minutes, Spock stares back challengingly. Then Jim waggles his eyebrows for no apparent reason, and Spock, confused, heads out of the shop, Jim obediently at his heels.

The next place they stop is a simple tourist location. They don’t really go inside, but Spock stops as they walk past it, eying a Vulcan lute in the window. He hasn’t played in a long time, and it’s not an instrument he expected to find on Earth. But there it is, a large, brown thing, all twelve strings glimmering in the sunlight.

But when would Spock have time to play? Jim would probably tease him for the sort of music he’d make, and, at least while he’s attempting to do well in Starfleet from an off-base location, he should dedicate all non-Jim time to study or work. Besides, it’ll cost too many credits. He ends up walking forward, past it, and they head for coffee shop. It’s too hot not to get something icy, and Jim seems to like icy coffee drinks. At the counter, Spock tries to pay for both drinks, but when Jim announces it’s his birthday, he’s given them for free. Feeling awkward, he expresses gratitude and politely takes his cup to a table. As they have nowhere else to go, the rational thing to do would be to sit and enjoy their drinks.

Jim gets a whipped, coffee-based confection: something Spock wouldn’t have allowed him when he was younger. (And Jim wouldn’t have wanted it then; he found coffee bitter and ‘gross.’) Spock gets a fruit smoothie, ignoring Jim’s amused smile over it. They sit in a corner near the window, at a little blue table with pink lighting overhead. Jim asks, “What’s it like to be twenty-two?”

“Remarkably similar to what it’s like to be twenty-one,” Spock answers dryly. There really is no need for a fuss. Jim lifts his plastic cup as though to make a toast.

“A perfect Spock answer.”

When Spock doesn’t move his cup, Jim leans his forward to bump lightly into Spock’s, and then he sits back in his seat properly. Spock watches him stir his cup with his straw, then take a large slurp. Jim suggests they see a movie. Spock is fine with that idea.

They end up watching some horrible tale of a smuggler robbing holographic Klingons that are discovered to actually be Romulans. The film contains an inordinate amount of explosions, which Jim seems to find wonderful and Spock finds unpleasant. The theatre’s full of people, and Jim buys them popcorn, although he eats most of it, spilling every time he laughs. It isn’t so bad, but it isn’t ideal.

Afterwards, they get dinner at a little bistro around the corner, and Jim insists on paying. The meal is very good, and they end up sharing a lot of their food, having both tried very different things. Halfway through, they decide that Jim prefers Spock’s soup and Spock prefers Jim’s pasta, much to their mutual surprise, and they switch their plates around. Jim demonstrates to Spock the ‘correct’ way for humans to consume spaghetti, which is an odd role reversal for Spock. But he listens, mimics the lesson, and it seems to work. He twists the noodles around his fork and watches Jim sip at the yellowish broth, fishing out his own noodles. They talk a little bit about Starfleet, a little about Jim’s classes, a little about Spock’s work, and a little about the movie. The waitress that serves them is, by all conventional standards, aesthetically pleasing. When she first serves them, Jim is all charm and smiles. By the end of the night, he barely seems to notice her.

They don’t head home until it begins to get dark outside, and as they’re walking back to Starfleet headquarters, Jim says, “Damnit, clothes. I should’ve gotten you clothes. That’s practical; even you couldn’t deny that.”

“That would be a very practical gift,” Spock replies, voice full of appreciation though the idea never came to fruition. “However, you already provided my meal.”

“Bah,” Jim mumbles, waving his hand. “That’s not a gift; that’s just birthday stuff. Besides, I could’ve played dress-up with you. That would’ve been _so_ fun.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow.

Jim continues, “We should do that another time. I’d like to get you in a pair of jeans. Maybe swim trunks? We never go swimming.”

“I took you swimming when you were little. I was also not aware you were so interested in fashion.”

“I’m not. I’d just like to help you fit in a little more. And that was ages ago. We should go again sometime.”

Spock’s not entirely sure that’d be a good idea. And he’s not sure he believes Jim’s story—Jim’s never mentioned any problems with Spock ‘fitting in’ before. Who would Spock need to fit in with, anyway? But he ends up nodding, simply because it’s easier. “Perhaps another time.”

They head through the building. They transport home, and they play a few rounds of 3D chess in Jim’s room. Then Spock retires for the night, saying, “Thank you, Jim.”

“For letting you win at chess?”

“For the day. I had... a most enjoyable time.”

Jim smiles. He climbs off the bed, standing straight next to Spock, and he embraces Spock tightly. His head hooks over Spock’s shoulder, stubble gently tickling Spock’s neck. They’re the same size now, Jim perhaps a little broader, so close in age with regards to their cultures that the thought, brought on by the sudden lining up of their bodies, startles Spock. Jim tells him quietly, “Happy birthday, Spock.”

Unsure, Spock holds him loosely back. All the times Spock was reminded that Vulcans don’t _touch_ unless necessary have long since gone out the window. Jim’s as warm as he always is, and he still fits in Spock’s arms. Spock doesn’t want him to let go, cherishes the touch too much. But Spock also needs him to let go. Before it does become _too much_. Jim does, and Spock leaves. Even though he had a wonderful day, he spends entirely too long lying awake.

In the morning, there’s an object wrapped in colourful paper sitting on the breakfast table in the shape of a Vulcan lute.

* * *

Spock’s able to align the end of his shift with only thirty minutes after Jim gets off his campus tour, so they can transport home together like they transported here. By the time he gets off, it’s raining hard, and he’s offered an umbrella from a coworker but doesn’t take it. It’s just a little rain, and he will be washing his uniform when he returns home anyway. He walks to the Academy, jogging whenever there is no overhang available. Jim’s supposed to meet him in the Eastern courtyard, and by the time Spock reaches the corridor before it, he’s officially soaking.

He spots Jim before he’s in the courtyard itself—Jim’s standing against the far wall, on the pavement spanning the length of a building, under an awning that stretches over that pavement. Jim’s still a little wet—his white shirt clings to him, a little transparent, and his hair is shining with dewdrops. There’s a man between him and the grass—a full grown _man_ —standing much too close. The man’s bald and has a goatee and must be at least ten years too old for Jim. He’s wearing a red cadet’s uniform. Despite his close proximity, Spock tells himself they’re just talking about the Academy, and what Jim can expect when he goes there.

Except that when Spock gets closer, the man puts two hands on the wall to either side of Jim’s shoulders, pinning him against it. Spock’s keen hearing picks up the end of the man’s sentence, drawled in a raunchy sort of tone, “...And bend you over my desk for a proper _inspec_ —”

The man never gets to finish his sentence, because Spock’s run the rest of the distance and shoved him so hard that he stumbles back and hits the pavement, right on his shoulder. Spock’s protectively between him and Jim in an instant, snarling, “Get out of here before I have you arrested for soliciting a minor.”

“The fuck?” the man growls, pushing to his feet, thick fists clenched. He’s burly, but he’s nothing against an angered Vulcan. “Who do you think you are, hitting me like that?”

“I was not making idle threats,” Spock replies seamlessly, voice calmer but eyes on fire. “You will leave this very moment, and if you ever speak to this boy again, I assure you I will not only report you but have your commission terminated immediately.”

The man, still enraged and agape, sizes Spock up, probably trying to ascertain whether or not Spock could actually follow through on this threat. Before he can decide one way or the other, a hand’s on Spock’s elbow, tugging him back. Spock half turns to Jim. He hadn’t even looked to see if Jim was agreeable to it or not. He should’ve. Not that it would’ve changed this outcome. Jim looks stern, and he says firmly, “Spock, it’s fine.”

Then Jim turns to the other man, winks, and says, “Later, cupcake.” The man’s face twists at the nickname, clearly meant to irritate. Jim tugs Spock’s arm lightly in the other direction, and then they’re walking off, along the path, Jim’s arm now wrapped around Spock’s to keep him moving.

When they’re back out in the rain, Spock’s head clears a bit. And he half expects Jim to be mad at him, even though he doesn’t regret his actions; that man was completely out of line. Instead, Jim seems mildly amused, and he says as he walks, “For the record, I wouldn’t have done anything with him anyway—completely not my type. And if I wanted a big strong man to put his arms around me, I guess I’ve got you for that.” He laughs, and the place on Spock’s arm where they’re touching suddenly seems warmer.

Spock asks rigidly, “Are you alright?”

“Wet, but otherwise alright.”

Spock doesn’t look at Jim for a plethora of reasons. They make it back to the transporter, soaked and silent.

* * *

About five minutes before he intends to leave and pick up Jim, his personal communicator goes off from his room. He rushes upstairs to answer it; Jim’s the only one who would contact him. It is Jim, of course. “Hey, I’m working late tonight, so don’t come get me yet, okay?”

“Then how will you get home?” Spock’s frowning.

“I’ll comm you.”

“Alright. Take care.” He doesn’t normally end his communications that way, but with Jim gone for an unspecified time, it seems appropriate.

Jim laughs on the other side and says, “Bye, love you too.” And the communicator beeps, signally that he’s off the other end. Spock closes his and places it back on his desk, then puts it in his back pocket just in case. He heads downstairs to put dinner away; the salad will have to go in the fridge and the samosas will have to be reheated. When he’s done that, he works on the calculations for his latest program.

An hour later, he’s beginning to get worried. He heads downstairs for no particular reason. Perhaps he’ll wait in the car until Jim comms him, and then he’ll be ready to go right away. But that would be unreasonable. Instead, Spock strolls into the living room and begins to straighten things that Jim’s inevitably knocked askew over the course of the week, such as the painting above the couch or the books on the shelf along the back wall. He’s just dragging the couch back to its original place when he hears an engine run outside, which is only noteworthy because it doesn’t fade off into the distance; it stops abruptly.

Then the front door opens, and Jim’s voice calls, “Spock!”

Spock exits the living room and heads down the hall, to find Jim tossing his backpack to the floor and gesturing outside. “C’mere!”

Frowning and perhaps mildly curious, Spock does as he’s told and follows Jim back out the door.

There’s a hovercruiser parked in front of the steps. He looks at Jim in confusion, who happily explains, “I got it with the credits I’ve been saving up. Isn’t it awesome? I drove it back. It’s beautiful. I love it.” And he looks at it with the sort of ‘puppy love’ Spock’s only seen him show for female peers before.

It isn’t the best hovercruiser Spock’s ever seen by a long stretch. It’s clearly an older model, slightly used, banged up in a few places. But compared to the car, it’s sleek and shiny and futuristic, and Jim has always shown an interest in vehicles. Spock supposes it makes sense.

He’s also nervous. Vehicles in any capacity are dangerous, and Jim can drive a little recklessly. But he’s old enough now, and he has his license, and Spock can’t technically stop him. And Jim looks too happy to stop, anyway.

He asks, “Can I drive you to town? Please?”

“What for?” Spock asks. He has nothing to get in town.

“I don’t care; I just want to drive it.”

“You drove it home.”

“I want to drive it with _you_.”

Though Spock doesn’t understand the sentiment, he can see on Jim’s face that this is important to him. So Spock nods. “Very well.” Although the vehicle looks meant for one person only.

Jim grins broadly and straddles it immediately, climbing on. Then he looks around and says, “Climb on the back and hold onto me.”

“Is it regulation to hold a passenger?”

“Yeah, it’s built to take two. Hop on.” Jim’s leaned forward, giving more space on the raised back. Mildly anxious, not for his own safety but Jim’s, Spock obeys. He climbs onto the raised end, noting the strange sensation of not having a backrest, and Jim repeats, “You have to hold onto me, or you’re going to fall off.” Spock puts his hands gingerly on Jim’s shoulders, but Jim laughs and says, “No, around my waist. Tight, and don’t let go.”

So Spock shifts his arms to under Jim’s, wrapping them firmly around Jim’s waist, holding on tight. He hooks his chin over Jim’s shoulder, and Jim’s black faux-leather jacket is warm against his chest. He’s got Jim’s legs along his inner thighs, and his crotch is pressed right against Jim’s rear. It’s not... the ideal place for a babysitter. Or a Vulcan. Spock briefly wonders if his father would be ashamed of how _human_ he’s become.

But Jim doesn’t seem to mind any of it. He turns the hovercruiser on, and wind rustles around them, kicking up dirt and making the ends of Spock’s shirt rise. Then they’re a few centimeters off the ground, and the Jim takes off, fast and hard, Spock clutching him close.

* * *

“Hey. Hey, Spock.”

Spock sniffs and tenses, groggily coming out of his dream. It takes him a second to remember he’s on the couch—he was waiting for Jim to come home. And now Jim’s right here, dressed in jeans and a tight shirt, leaning over him through the darkness.

Jim’s not just leaning over him.

Jim’s straddling him, waist over his, crotch against his hip, and Spock twists around to look up, lying on his side and lifting onto his elbow. “Jim—”

He’s cut off by Jim’s lips on his, firm and lingering. In a state of shock, Spock’s eyes close on instinct. 

Jim’s lips are soft and warm, and his tongue slithers into Spock’s open mouth, and he tastes of alcohol. Jim tilts his head, nose bumping into Spock’s, lips working against Spock’s, tongue pressing against Spock’s. It’s wet and intoxicating, and Spock’s acutely aware of every bit of Jim pressing into him.

 _Jim_.

Spock pushes him away abruptly, but Jim stays atop him, head hovering a few centimeters above. Spock’s hand stays on Jim’s chest. He can feel Jim breathing too hard. His own pulse is too fast. Jim’s pupils are blown wide, lips so pink. Jim mumbles drunkenly, “You’re so hot.”

Spock doesn’t know what to say. All the words have been sucked out of him, out of his lungs and his brain. It’s like a bomb has gone off inside him, stomach twisting and heart clenching and brain both on overdrive and short-circuited. He looks at Jim, and in that moment, he has the horrible feeling of _wanting Jim so badly_.

But he knows how _wrong_ that is, and he feels sick with himself. Jim will be eighteen in a few days, and that’s still too young. Spock’s a full-grown adult, and yet he feels like he’s the vulnerable one. And there’s so much more than that. And Jim continues, low and quiet, “Maybe that’s why I first picked you. When we were at headquarters, and Mom asked me what sort of babysitter I wanted, and I saw you across the floor and I pointed and knew I had to have you... I don’t know.”

Jim won’t remember this in the morning. He never does. This is awkward and strange, and Jim’s confused. It’s ruining everything. Spock will have to pretend like nothing happened, even though his whole world’s been turned upside down. Too far. Spock says, “You are confused.”

“No.” Jim shakes his head. “I was out with a girl, and... I don’t know, I had to be here instead.” He tries to go in for another kiss, and when Spock puts his forearm between them, Jim whines, “Please, I _want_ you... I know you want me too...”

“That is not appropriate,” Spock nearly hisses. “You are not of age, and I am your caretaker.”

“I don’t care, I don’t care. I’m drunk and I’m horny...”

Those are terrible reasons. They’re true. Spock’s heart sinks. Or maybe it was already down there. He hates this, and that’s not a word he employs often. Jim tries to go in again, and Spock says, voice breaking, “Jim. _No._ ”

Jim stops. Spock’s surprised at that but immeasurably grateful and disappointed all at once. Jim falls down on top of Spock, fully, face against the side of Spock’s head and chest against Spock’s shoulder, limp in seconds.

For a few moments, Spock’s frozen. Then Jim starts to snore softly; a trait of his drunken slumbers. Why does this always happen when he’s drunk? Jim shouldn’t ever drink. Spock hates that. He hates this. He loves Jim, and now... now he knows that at least some small part of him is abusing that.

It’s a long while before Spock finds the will to move. He sits up, and he gathers Jim in his arms, and he carries Jim up to bed.

Jim looks so gorgeous when he’s asleep. He looks innocent, too—nothing like the tormentor he is when awake. Spock tucks him in properly, pulling off his shoes and lifting up the covers. Spock finds himself lingering in the doorway, and that night, he doesn’t sleep at all.


	7. Eighteen

Spock hasn’t played the lute in years, but his fingers remember how. He balances the instrument in his lap and begins to pluck the delicate strings, only practicing for now, not in any real tune. It comes out more somber than he feels, and he purposely strays to the other end, playing higher.

Then the door opens, and Spock stops abruptly, listening to Jim kicking off his shoes and dropping his backpack. He’s in the living room a few seconds later. “You’re playing it,” he announces, smiling. “Are you any good?”

It’s always difficult to answer vague questions like that. Is Spock well practiced? No. Is he professionally trained? No. Did his mother and father compliment his playing when he was younger? His mother, yes. In fact, he makes a mental note to see if she has any song requests next time he sends her a communication.

In the meantime, he says, “That is a subjective question.”

Jim rolls his eyes and takes a seat next to Spock on the couch, facing him. “Play me something.”

Frowning, Spock doesn’t comply. He fully expects to be teased. He chooses another reason to provide. “I do not know any Earth songs.” Not well enough to play on a Vulcan lute, anyway.

Jim laughs, ringing and beautiful. “I don’t care. Play me anything.”

For a moment, Spock still wants to refuse. Jim looks honest, earnest. Exhaling deeply, Spock says, “Very well.” And he starts to play an old, simple Vulcan lullaby. He forces himself to look away while he does it. It makes him think of his home on Vulcan. It’s soothing.

He plays for several minutes before Jim says, “That’s beautiful.” Spock stops at the interruption, but Jim’s eyebrows knit together, and he whines, “Oh, don’t stop.” He’s leaning against the couch, looking tired. It’s the effect these songs tend to have on humans.

Spock goes on. The living room is filled with the gentle sounds of the strings.

When he finishes the song, several minutes later, Jim sighs, “You are good.”

Spock, cheeks perhaps the tiniest bit warm, says, “Thank you.”

* * *

Her name is Martha. Jim doesn’t particularly like it, but he seems to like her well enough. He never brings her to the house with Spock there, though he goes out to see her often. He dates her officially for two weeks, and then they break up. Spock feels morally obligated to ask, “Do you require comfort?”

Jim shrugs from his place on the bed, buried in a PADD. Because of the circumstances, Spock is refraining from scolding him over his shoes still being on. He’s stretched out, and Spock’s in the doorway. “I’m fine.”

Earth literature and television dictate otherwise regarding a human break up, but Spock doesn’t press the issue. He’s not sure how comforting he could be anyway. It’s unusual for Jim to explicitly _date_ someone—he seemed content to live on a day-by-day basis before. Therefore, he must’ve had some affection for her. But he doesn’t seem so upset now, and he told Spock of it in a very casual manner on his way up the stairs.

Turning to leave, Spock’s stopped by Jim calling, “Wait.” He looks over his shoulder, and Jim puts the PADD down on the nightstand. “Do you... want to watch a movie together or something...?”

That might be the comfort he requires. Spock nods. “That would be acceptable.” He waits in the doorway for Jim to climb off the bed, stretch out his arms, yawn, and grab a blanket. Spock lifts an eyebrow, but Jim only grins. He follows Spock out the door with his green duvet in his arms.

As they pass the kitchen, Jim asks, “Will you make me popcorn?” And his voice sounds slightly down turned, so Spock instantly agrees. He puts the recipe chip in the synthesizer, and Jim calls from the other room, “Bring chopsticks! I don’t want to be the only one eating it.” So Spock gets chopsticks from the drawer—Jim knows him well.

The tin bowl is hot in his hands as he delivers it, and Jim lifts up the blanket so he can sit down on the other end of the couch. He doesn’t require any blanket, but Jim tucks him in anyway, so their laps are covered. Spock places the bowl in Jim’s lap; Jim is likely to eat the most. Jim scoots closer to Spock and barks, “Computer, open movie library.” A list comes up. Spock isn’t sure what exactly is appropriate for this occasion, but he lets Jim pick.

Jim picks something very old, in which the picture is slightly blurry and primates take over the surface of the Earth. Jim grunts, “Martha never wanted to watch man movies. Screw her.”

Spock has no idea what a ‘man movie’ constitutes. He didn’t even know human movies were gender-specific, though it could just be Jim lashing out at Martha over the breakup. If ‘man movies’ are what Jim usually watches, Spock tends to agree with Martha. However, he finds the primate movie mildly fascinating considering the era it was produced in. He watches without complaint, occasionally plucking popcorn out of the bowl. It’s coated in entirely too much butter, but Jim seems to like it.

That’s what matters.

* * *

Jim puts it off for about a week after Spock suggests it, and then one day, Spock wakes up to Jim on top of him, bright eyed and insistent. Spock rubs his eyes and leans his head away from the light of the window. Jim’s on all fours, hands to either side of him, over the blankets. “We’re gonna do it today,” he says, sounding determined. “I psyched myself up for like thirty minutes, so we gotta do it before I lose my nerve.”

“Do what?” Spock mumbles, feeling the inordinate urge to roll over and go back to sleep. It’s not something he often indulges in, but sometimes Jim is a difficult dose to handle so early.

“Hand in my Starfleet application!” Jim says, like it’s obvious and very, very important. And it is. “I want to do it in person. And I want you to come with me. Ah, not right to the office—that’ll look weak. But, y’know, come to San Fran with me? And I can come get you after and we can have coffee or something? I want to do it before the weekend’s over. So... that means I have to do it today. It’s never gonna happen on a school day. I should do it now. Be my moral support? But don’t let them see me holding your hand. Even though I totally want you to hold my hand. You know.” He’s rambling.

Spock says as levelly as possible, “Remove yourself from my bed and leave the room so I may change and adequately awaken, then we will go to California as per your request.” After a moment, he adds, “I think it is an excellent idea to hand in your application personally.” Because he is proud.

Jim grins brighter than the morning sun. He climbs off Spock and walks out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Spock’s left to get up and close it. He grabs his clothes and has a quick shower, and then he has a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table with Jim, who tries to eat, but mostly just nervously goes over his PADD. Spock looks over it for him. It looks excellent. Even without Spock’s recommendation—which he fully intends to give the next time he goes in alone—and the Admiral’s connection, Jim looks good in print. He has excellent grades and an existing job. ...And they can’t tell from this data that he might drink too much or flirt more than study.

When they’re ready, they head straight to the Academy, and Spock finds a spare bench to read on while Jim goes to the office. There’s a part of Spock that wants to go with him, protect him and make sure everything’s one hundred percent okay. But Spock knows that would embarrass Jim, and Jim can do this, so he waits. He tries to become engrossed in the literature on his PADD.

Instead, his mind wanders to what it’ll be like when Jim’s attending the Academy. He’ll probably live on campus. He’ll be too old for a babysitter. Spock... won’t have a place with him anymore.

Not being needed by Jim has been a difficult thing to adjust to, although there’s still plenty of little ways for Spock to make himself useful. He doesn’t want to think about the future when those little opportunities won’t be there. Jim will get a new roommate. Probably a human one. They’ll most likely become close, best friends, and that’s who Jim will want to watch movies and take hovercruiser rides with. Perhaps the new friend will even play chess. Spock will visit when he can... but perhaps Jim won’t want him too.

Jim will be handsome and popular and everything Spock never was at the Academy, and he’ll succeed and go far. There’s a little bit of solace in that; above all, Spock wants Jim to succeed. Even if it has to be without him.

Jim shows up twenty minutes later, beaming and sitting down right next to Spock. “I did it.”

“Good.”

“I’m going to be a starship captain.”

“You have a tendency to get very far ahead of yourself, Jim.”

Jim laughs. But he looks relieved and determined, all confidence again. Spock tries to reciprocate the positive feelings, and he lets himself be pulled across the way to the food court. The sun is bright all day, and they don’t go home until dinner.

* * *

Jim’s spent the past few days mostly locked in his room studying, and he spends an inordinate amount of time at the school. Now that he’s actually set his sights on a serious career, he’s working hard to make sure he does well on his final exams. He knocks on Spock’s door on the weekend, and Spock says, “Come in.”

Jim does, looking utterly exhausted, dark lines under his eyes. But he’s got that sort of bristling energy like he’s going to _do something_ , and Spock half expects him to introduce a new girlfriend. Instead, he says, “I’m going crazy with this school and ‘the future’ stuff. Do you want to go out for dinner?”

Spock doesn’t understand the connection; experiencing trepidation about one’s future can’t be alleviated by dining elsewhere. But Jim seems to need it, so he agrees, “Very well. Shall I drive?”

Jim shakes his head. “Nah, I want to. Just don’t let me fall asleep behind the wheel.” Spock lifts an eyebrow. That doesn’t sound safe, and there is no wheel on Jim’s hovercruiser. Chuckling at the expression, Jim waves his hand. “It’s fine. Just bite my ear if you think I’ve dozed off, ‘kay?” He turns and heads down the hall, leaving Spock with the unpleasant memory of _ear biting._ He shouldn’t think about that. He puts his project away and heads after Jim.

It’s already getting a bit dark outside, the air cool. Spock, wrapped in a thick, blue sweater, wraps his arms around Jim, pulled up close to Jim’s black jacket. He hooks his chin over Jim’s shoulder and can feel Jim’s ear pressing into his cheek. He holds onto Jim tight.

For once, Jim doesn’t drive that fast. Maybe he is tired. Spock is sure he wouldn’t actually fall asleep while driving, but once he veers too far to the left, and Spock nudges the side of his head, saying over the wind, “Please correct your course by at least twenty-five degrees.”

Jim grunts, “I got it, I got it,” and they’re on course again.

By the time they get to town, the stars are out. Jim parks, Spock climbs off, and Jim seems perfectly awake. They head to a large restaurant a few blocks down, where Jim tells the server they want a table for two. The restaurant is fairly crowded, and it’s hard to make out any of the background noise simply because there’s so much of it. The lights are very low, the atmosphere dim and thick. They’re taken to a very small table in the back with barely enough room to fit both their arms on. They take their seats anyway, and the waitress brings them menus.

Spock knows what he wants; he rarely deviates from his usual orders at this particular establishment. Jim says, “Maybe I’ll get ravioli...”

Spock adds, “The last time you ordered ravioli here you commented that they were bland.”

“Was that here?” Jim asks, squinting.

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He goes back to looking, musing rhetorically aloud, “What should I get...?”

Because there is nothing else to do until the decision is made, Spock looks over his menu with Jim’s health and preferences in mind. He suggests, “Their vegetarian nut burger looks nutritious.”

“It’s covered in vegetables.”

“Your diet could benefit from that.”

“No thanks, Mom.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. Jim makes that reference often, but Spock never quite understands it. Eventually, the waitress returns, only to look exclusively at Jim and bat her eyelids. Her black dress hangs a little too low off her shoulders for Spock’s idea of decency, and she stands unnecessarily close to their table despite there being plenty of room on the, albeit packed, floor. She chirps, “What can I get you boys?”

“I’ll have a Greek pizza, and he’ll have the garden salad,” Jim says before Spock can add anything. Spock looks at him curiously. They didn’t discuss it, but that is what Spock wanted. Jim subtly winks at him, and that makes his face a tad hot.

“Anything to drink?” the waitress asks. 

“Nope, I’m driving, and he’s....” Jim doesn’t really finish the statement, more just gestures into the distance. Vulcans generally don’t drink, but that might not be common knowledge on Earth. The waitress giggles, and Jim says, “Oh, but I guess we’ll have some water.”

“Coming right up.” She takes their menus, and Jim leans across the table. Their knees are touching underneath it. They’re very, very close.

They’ve always been close. Jim puts his hand on Spock’s, and Spock looks down at it. His stomach tightens. The soft pads of Jim’s fingers brush gently over his skin, making him want to shiver, and Jim says, “I... I think we need to talk about things, now that I’m about to graduate.” Spock’s head snaps up. Jim’s blue eyes—so _blue_ even in the barely-there light—are a little sad. “I know we just sort of usually ignore it, and that’s mostly my fault; I don’t want to mess with things because I don’t want anything to change. But... but if the Academy accepts me, it... it’ll change.”

“When,” Spock corrects. There’s a lump in his throat. When the Academy accepts Jim, of course it will. If they were going to have this conversation, they should’ve had it back at the house. Jim cracks a little smile, but he still seems nervous. It’s strange to see Jim nervous; he’s usually so full of confidence. He clears his throat.

“I’m probably going to room at the Academy. I thought about staying, but... even if Mom does come back, she still does so many missions that it’ll still feel empty, but if you and I are both in California so often, what’s the point? And I really want to go through the program as fast as possible—I know it’s supposed to take four years, but if I really apply myself, I think I can make it in two. It’ll seem like even less if I can catch the first semester this year. So... yeah. I think I should stay there.”

Spock nods. That, clearly, would be the best option. Jim licks his lips.

“I was wondering... well, I was _hoping_...” He looks at Spock very intently and says all at once, “I was really hoping you’d live with me there.”

For a moment, Spock is quiet. He has a flashback to his days in the Academy dormitory, and he thinks of what it might’ve been like if things were different, if he’d had Jim with him then. But that’s not the situation. Spock’s throat is dry. He wants to say yes, but instead he says, “Those accommodations are meant solely for cadets.”

“I know, but you do work there sometimes, right?”

“Faculty, even in a part-time capacity, and students should not be boarding together.”

Jim looks crestfallen. He never wants to hear the rules. But Spock is firm. He knows it would have to be that way. Eventually. Inevitably. Jim asks, “Where will you go, then...?” And he leaves off the rest, but it’s clear on his face what he really means.

Space is still waiting. Spock could join a starship crew any time, but he still has time. Jim... will only take that two years. Waiting for him is irrational. Spock could go in the meantime and come back.

But that would be two years where he would miss Jim. Yes, Jim’s an adult now, but he’s still growing. Winona Kirk missed all that. Spock’s not as strong.

He says thickly, “I may find accommodations in San Francisco.”

Jim nods. “Good. I mean, there’s lots of important work to do at the Academy, I’m sure. You could probably even teach a class if you wanted.” Then he grins and adds, “And any time you worked late and needed a place to stay, you could crash in my room. Uh, stay overnight, I mean. Sorry, human expression. And we could still play chess all the time.”

Spock nods. There is no reason for them not to see each other once Jim graduates.

Unless, of course, Jim no longer sees fit to maintain a friendship. Being seen with Spock would probably be embarrassing for a young man like Jim. And Jim will be busy with his studies, especially if he plans to accelerate through the curriculum so quickly. And Jim will just be older and not need him any more...

The waitress returns with Jim’s pizza first. It takes up most of the table, and he starts in on it right away, with his hands. He asks, “Do you want some?”

Spock says, “No, thank you.” Pizza is not a particularly Vulcan-friendly food.

Jim insists, “Try a slice.”

But Spock shakes his head. His salad comes a few moments later. He thanks her and sets to eating. It’s a good thing Jim got a head start, because he has considerably more food to go through. Their knees are touching the whole night, until Jim shifts one of his legs between Spock’s, spreading out. They aren’t holding hands anymore, since they’re eating. Jim finishes his water early and uses Spock’s for the rest of the meal, which leaves an oily imprint on the glass. Spock puts up with it simply because he wouldn’t want Jim dehydrated. They talk about lighter things when they eat, and Spock repeatedly tells Jim not to eat with his mouth full.

When they’re done, Spock nearly has to neck pinch Jim in order to pay. He’s older, and he’s still, technically, looking after Jim, and he feels like he should always pay. But Jim’s become very good about offering. It probably comes in handy with his friends and dates, but for now, Spock’s in charge. They thank the server at the front on their way out, and Spock’s full and tired. Most of the lights on the street are out by now, though the streetlamps are on. They walk back to the empty parking lot where the hovercruiser is, Jim walking around it.

Spock says, “Thank you for suggesting dinner. I had an agreeable time.”

Usually, Jim corrects that to pleasurable. He clearly had a fun time too. He leans over the hovercruiser, and he suddenly grabs the front of Spock’s sweater.

He jerks Spock forward, right over the cruiser, the engine off and the seat cool. Their mouths land together, and Jim’s lips are soft, warm, and a little moist. He isn’t drunk this time. Spock was with him all night and was at home with him all day; he’s sober and in his right mind and _kissing_ Spock. Spock’s eyes are closed. Jim’s hand slides up to the back of his head, holding onto his hair. Spock’s hands are on the cruiser’s seat, put there in surprise, steadying him. Jim’s lips part, and the tip of his tongue presses against Spock’s lips. He has a sharp intake of breath through his nose, crushed up against Jim’s. Jim’s chin is a little prickly—he forgot to shave again.

Spock opens his mouth. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. He knows that. But he opens up and he lets Jim’s tongue slide in. His own tongue won’t move; this is wrong and he knows it. But Jim’s tongue does all the work, feeling him up, tracing every part of him. It covers his teeth and the walls of his mouth and flattens down over Spock’s, and then it pulls back and Jim nibbles on his bottom lip. One of Spock’s hands reaches out. He wants to pull Jim _in_ so badly.

But instead he shoves Jim away, just lightly, by the shoulder. Jim grunts and moves back, eyes still closed. It takes them a second to open. Then he’s looking at Spock hazily, and he says, very clearly, “I want you.”

Spock’s frozen and tumultuous under that. It’s like all the times Jim’s said it to him drunk, except he isn’t drunk, he’s perfectly sober and he must _mean_ it. He looks like he means it. He’s looking at Spock so desperately and intensely, holding his ground. They’re out in the cold air under the stars far away in town, and Spock’s got absolutely nowhere to run. He opens his mouth, but he’s forgotten how to talk.

Then he manages, somehow, “...Jim...”

“Tell me you want me too,” Jim says quietly. Nearly whines. Or maybe whispers. They’re still so close. “Nothing else matters.”

What Spock wants is the only thing that _doesn’t_ matter. He forces himself to take a deep breath. He says, shaking, “This is inappropriate.”

“I don’t care—”

“Jim,” Spock hisses, firm as he can with his eyebrows knit together and his hands trembling at his sides. “I am your guardian. Your caretaker. I have watched you grow from a child into a man, and you are confused about your feelings—”

“I am not!” Jim says indignantly, but Spock ignores him.

“This is wrong. You are very young. You might be legally a man, but you are still young. It would be wrong of me to take advantage—”

“Advantage?” Jim laughs humourlessly. “Fuck, Spock. I knew you’d say all this shit, but don’t you dare blame my feelings on yourself. Or on childhood or whatever. I don’t have a babysitter kink. You’re a hell of a lot more than that to me. You’re _everything_ to me. I don’t even really see you as a babysitter, never did. You’re more like... like a really good friend. My best friend. Or my partner. My co-pilot. We do everything together, and I don’t ever want that to change. And I want to really do everything. Every time I get with a girl, or even when I fiddle around with other guys, all I’m ever thinking of is you, and if you got someone else, I’d.... Fuck, Spock, just... I love you, okay?”

Spock hears everything. His heart is beating very, very fast, and his head feels too thin. He didn’t know Jim felt that way. He knew Jim liked him, of course, loved him in a different way, but... Spock loves Jim too. Just, he can’t love Jim like that. He can’t let himself. He doesn’t even want to think about it, because it’s wrong, and he doesn’t trust himself to handle even as much as the idea. Jim’s all he ever thinks about.

“Perhaps...” It hurts him to say this. He doesn’t want to say it. He feels like his voice is going to crack. He forces himself to keep going. “Perhaps it would be best if I... if I found new accommodations...”

“No!” Jim practically cries. He leans across the cruiser and grabs Spock’s hand, and Spock’s too much of a wreck to pull it back. There’s a spark of _connection_ that always gets him, used to just be warmth, but now that Jim’s older, and.... Jim licks his lips and visibly tries to calm down, squeezing Spock’s palm. “No, just... fuck, I messed everything up.” He looks aside, but he doesn’t let go. Spock should’ve said that a long time ago, the first time Jim kissed him. But Jim shakes his head at the ground. He looks up again. “Don’t go. Spock, please. I... I want to make you understand that I don’t care about any of that stuff. I don’t care what’s proper or moral. I just know how I feel, and I know you must want me too, at least a little. I can tell from the way you look at me and the way we are together.” Spock’s heart is in his throat—he’s full of guilt. “I hate that you think of me like a child, but I’m not any more, and five years for two adults is nothing. People marry spouses a decade younger all the time! And I’m not even asking for that; I just want a chance. And if you can’t give me that, then... then I still don’t want you to leave.”

“It would be best.” No, it wouldn’t. It’d hurt. It’d hurt so much. It hurts just to think about. “If I cannot be trusted to take care of you properly then I must remove myself from the situation.” He should’ve removed himself the minute he first saw Jim like this, seventeen-year-old Jim with his pretty eyes and handsome face and gorgeous body begging for Spock. He made himself stop, of course, but the thought still came to him. Jim grabs his other hand. Spock feels trapped.

“I’m eighteen. You’re not my caretaker anymore. You’re a roommate.” That hurts.

Spock liked being more than that. He shakes his head. “This is inappropriate. I should leave.”

Jim’s voice is shaking. “Spock, I’m begging you. Don’t. I swear I won’t do it again. But I’m going to graduate soon, and I need you there for that. You’ve been with me almost my entire high school life, and I just... look, I have to leave for the Academy later, anyway, right? You’ll get to escape then. Until then, please, please don’t leave me.”

Escape. It isn’t that. He’s been looking forward to seeing Jim on stage, collecting his high school diploma, wearing his graduation robes and hat and beaming with accomplishment. Spock could still leave, and just attend that one day. But...

He nods. His throat’s dry again. He licks his lips. “Very... very well...”

Jim heaves a giant sigh of relief. He tugs Spock across the cruiser and hugs him tight, their lower bodies separated by the metal and their upper bodies arching into one another. Jim’s arms are so thick and strong around Spock’s shoulders: another rude wake up call. Jim buries his face in the side of Spock’s. It sounds like he’s breathing very hard, distressed. Spock hates making Jim feel distressed.

Spock hates the thought of not having Jim, and everything’s so complicated, and sometimes he wishes Jim were twelve again and things were easier. Other times, he wishes Jim were twenty-three and they were meeting for the first time on the bridge of a starship. Everything’s so complicated. The future’s so uncertain.

The only thing he knows for sure is that he needs Jim in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go. But he has to. Driving home, he’s still got Jim in his arms.

They sleep in separate rooms. Sometimes, Spock wonders what it would be like if they didn’t.

The morning is stiff and awkward and difficult. They should talk about it, but there’s nothing else to say. They return to themselves slower than usual, and a part of Spock wishes Jim had been drunk—it’d be easier.

When Jim leaves for school on Monday morning, Spock misses him.

* * *

Jim comes home from work soaking wet, heading straight for the shower. Spock tries not to think about it as he picks Jim’s wet clothes off the hall floor and adds them to the basket he’s carrying. He finds Jim’s wet jacket draped over the railing of the stairs, and he takes it with everything else downstairs, tossing it all into the washing machine. Perhaps he should teach Jim how to use it—when Jim’s in the Academy, he might be surprised to learn what happens when someone doesn’t pick up their own clothes and doesn’t have a Spock to cover the difference.

Jim comes out of the shower half an hour later, and Spock offers to make him dinner, but he says he ate at work. He asks, “Wanna play Deep Space Seven?” Which is a video game they’ve started. Spock doesn’t quite understand the point of video games, particularly when they’re based on utter fantasy and therefore can’t be attributed to mental training. But he’s well aware that he needs to spend as much time with Jim as possible while they’re still together. It’s unlikely Jim will have time for such things at the Academy. (Although Jim certainly seems to have a way of making time.)

It’s still raining outside, loudly and hard, blanketing the windows in a murky downpour. It makes the whole living room dark, but Jim likes to keep the lights off. He says it sets the mood. He passes Spock a controller and sits next to him, ordering the viewscreen to pull up their file. It’s set on a space station similar to a Federation outpost, except everything in the game is completely imaginary. Jim’s playing a starship (spaceship, they call it) captain, and Spock plays his first officer. They built their characters in a generator at the beginning. Jim wanted to play a female character devoid of any uniform, but Spock’s disapproving looks forced him to create a character as similar to himself as possible. Spock’s done the same. Their artificial counterparts are currently huddled in a laboratory, and a white script over the top of the screen repeats their objective.

“We have to get to the power reserves before the whole crew’s infected,” Jim says aloud, staring right at the screen. It’s always odd to see him like this; he stares forward the entire time, but he’s constantly talking to either Spock or the players; it’s difficult to tell. There’s no sense speaking to their avatars, obviously, but Jim doesn’t seem to care about that. “We need to pick up some more bullets.” Their characters carry guns rather than phasers.

“As they are our own crew, it would be more advisable to stun them or knock them out using the melee controls,” Spock suggests. He’s holding his controller but not touching any buttons, as the second they leave the virtual room, the countdown will begin, and right now they’re just planning. Jim’s forcing his avatar to turn random circles, and it looks very odd when he accidentally walks into the walls, feet still moving forward uselessly.

“Nah. Trust me, these games never actually heal them. Besides, that takes way more time, and we’re on a time limit.”

“As you are the captain and it is merely an artificial simulation, I will defer to your decision. However, were this a real subspace issue, I would have to insist we do otherwise.”

Jim snorts. “Noted, Commander. Alright, let’s head out. You ready?”

“I believe I am.”

“Okay.” Jim has his character walk towards the automatic doors, and a barrage of gunfire erupts around them, Spock attempting to dodge and Jim running right through. Jim yells, “Go, go, go!”

“I am going.”

“Spock, over here—shit!” Jim promptly runs into an ambush of alien attackers which look similar to Gorn. Spock maneuvers his character to Jim’s as quickly as possible, and Jim starts rambling, “Spock, Spock, Spock—damnit!” Spock’s character is promptly speared in the chest, and he falls face down on the floor with the metal pole sticking right out of his back. “I tried to warn you!” Jim yells, now using the melee buttons as Spock suggested, as he’s run out of bullets.

“Repeating my name in an agitated fashion is hardly adequate warning of anything.”

“Well, we have to move fast! And you’re my first officer; you have to interpret what I want.” But it’s only a game, so Spock’s not entirely sure why he’s being held to that standard.

He refuses to admit aloud that he’s mildly impressed when Jim successfully defeats the creatures alone. Then he kneels down and selects an item which inexplicably brings Spock’s character back to life.

“Okay, down this corridor, c’mon.”

“There appears to be a console in the corner capable of being scanned.” Spock rotates his avatar towards it, but it’s out of range. As Jim’s playing the main character, the camera is following him. “Jim, please step—”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck! Aliens!” Jim’s gun starts going off again. A stray bullet runs right through Spock’s character, but, most illogically, it does no damage. “Spock, a little help over here!”

“I am attempting to scan the console.”

“Damnit, Spock! The console will still be there after!” He sounds furious, but Spock knows from past experience that his emotions are unrealistically heightened during video games and should therefore not be considered as important to indulge.

“We will receive bonus points if we scan the console. Those points can then be used to—”

“Spock, get your blue ass over here right now!”

Spock’s rear end is, of course, not blue. However, his character’s in the game could conceivably be—perhaps in an attempt to seem more otherworldly, all characters have different skin colours. Spock’s is blue, Jim’s is yellow. As Jim seems considerably more invested in this game than Spock is, Spock diverts to Jim's choice and ushers his character over, repeatedly tapping the button for his stunning weapon. 

But Jim says, “Don’t stun, shoot! If you stun them, they’ll just get up after!”

“By which point we will be long gone.”

Jim makes a very frustrated sound. But they manage to best the aliens, and Jim’s character runs off down a side corridor, Spock following as quickly as possible. It’s frustrating that his character runs at set speeds, and it’s highly unrealistic. They reach a grate in the ceiling, and the screen asks them to tap their bottom left buttons on the controllers to get the characters to help boost each other up into the air ducts. They then have to crawl through a labyrinth of dark tunnels, and when the camera splits off into a second half of the viewscreen for Spock’s character, Jim mumbles without looking, “Over here, baby.”

Spock doesn’t say anything about the petname, again because they’re playing video games, and those bring out the illogical in Jim like nothing else. He tends to get very attached and affectionate towards their characters. At the same time, he can be very volatile when their characters don’t take the correct route or Spock deviates from his instructions.

But overall, playing with Jim is still an agreeable experience. By the time they reach the end of the tunnels, three quarters of their limited time has been used up. Jim leads them forward, muttering to himself, “Where are you, you evil bastards...?”

As soon as the green head of an alien character pops up in the distance, Jim shouts, “Hah! Got you, you stupid fucker!” And he promptly sets in shooting at the beast, despite the fact that the creature is quite incapable of hearing his threats. Spock follows behind.

When they finally reach the power reserves, an alien device is mounted on the console, sucking out energy. Spock glances at Jim, who’s staring at the viewscreen, the vivid blue light washing over his face. Jim tries the scanners, but it appears to hold no information. “We’ll shoot it,” Jim decides.

Spock complies, although in reality, that would be a very poor choice. However, they do have only five seconds left to react. Together, they shoot the object apart, and it’s shards shimmer once before disappearing into nothing. Jim says, “Yeah!” And he holds out his hand for a high-five.

Spock still isn’t very familiar with that concept, but he raises his hand to Jim’s anyway.

The next level loads, and Jim leans on his shoulder.

* * *

The graduation is far more decorative than a Vulcan one. The school rents out a local theatre, and banners are strung up everywhere, seating sold with tickets. The admiral sends her regrets that she can’t attend, but the ceremony is filmed, and she will, of course, be sent a complimentary copy. Parents and relatives are meant to wait in the audience while the graduating students line up backstage, done up in their black robes and odd-looking hats, and a few professors run up and down the line frantically going over the schedule of events. A few younger siblings are hanging around, and Spock’s somehow been dragged into that category, with Jim hugging him tight. Then they’re told it’s almost time, and Spock has to leave. Before he goes, he says, “I am very proud of you.”

Jim says, “Thanks.” And he grins insanely wide. Nodding curtly, Spock leaves to the back door, shrouded in shadow, followed by a few younger children. He then walks around the hallway to the doors of their room, and he searches for his seat, several rows down. It’s awkward to get there, as most of the parents are already sitting. But he manages. He stares straight forward at the crimson curtains, and a few moments later, they’re pulled aside. The crowd begins to clap.

Most of the elements of the ceremony Spock doesn’t understand. He knows that many are routed purely in tradition and hold no actual purpose. Two students give opening speeches, though all they have to say are generalities filled with little jabs that seem to make the audience laugh. Then there are several rounds of appreciation for faculty members and a few more flowery speeches. There’s a general overview of the school, and then instructions to turn personal communicators or PADDs off. Spock brought neither. The lighting in the theatre dims.

After a couple more announcements, the students begin to filter onto the stage, one by one, coming out a small door on the right and crossing to the left. There they shake hands with several faculty members, and a man in the front reads out a short blurb on what they intend to do with their futures. Several students are presented with awards, some for in-school successes such as high grades or notable achievements in particular classes, others for community accomplishments created by independent organizations. It takes a very long time for it to be Jim’s turn. That’s the only part of this affair that Spock intends to retain.

When Jim’s called, he struts onto the stage with shining charisma. He shakes his professors’ hands enthusiastically, and he happily accepts a rolled up scroll from one of them. His plans for Starfleet and space are announced, as well as his reception of an award for high grades. He holds up the scroll and smiles genially at the crowd, and while everyone claps, Spock claps the loudest. Clapping isn’t an action that comes naturally to him, but he engages in it for the sake of supporting Jim. Then Jim walks off the stage, and Spock must sit and endure the next hour of other students. It’s not particularly interesting, but his pride for Jim sustains him. Even if staying with Jim has been taxing in some ways, he’s immeasurably glad he did stay.

After the very long ceremony, Spock meets Jim in the lobby, which seems much too small to house all the bodies in it. It’s difficult to weave through the crowd, but they somehow manage, eventually making it back outside, where they can talk properly. Jim’s clutching his scroll and a package of other things he must’ve received backstage—a display booklet with the pictures of all his peers, a medal with his graduation year carved onto it, a printed copy of his diploma, and several other leaflets. He takes his hat off and holds them all together.

Many of the other students are clustered with each other, loudly discussing celebration plans, but Jim says, “We’re meeting tomorrow anyway, my friends. I’ll celebrate with them then. Can we go get dinner or something?” The ceremony went right through dinner time, and the sky is already dark.

Spock concedes. They walk to the car first anyway to leave Jim’s things there, and then he pulls off his robe and adds it to the backseat, down to his shirt and jeans. They’re headed towards the nearest restaurant when Jim stops abruptly, grabbing Spock’s hand. They’re not the only students that wanted food after, and the town, for once, is filled, despite the late hour. “Shit! I almost forgot to tell you!”

“Forgot to tell me what?” Spock asks, turning to face him.

“I got the transmission this morning, but I was so caught up getting ready for grad I completely forgot to tell you—Starfleet accepted my application! I start this fall!”

Spock dons a very rare smile. He knew Jim would be accepted, of course, but he’s still happy for Jim to know that for a fact. “Congratulations. You are most deserving of it.”

Jim laughs, nodding. “Thanks. I’m... I’m pretty excited.”

And they start walking again, but this time, Jim’s full of stories about space and musings on what he thinks he’ll find there. Then he starts to talk about school, and all the things he’ll miss. All his friends, and even some of the teachers. Spock pays for dinner on account of it being Jim’s special day, and for once, Jim lets him.

* * *

Swimming wasn’t a good idea, and Spock knew that from the beginning. But he’s here anyway, in the middle of the indoor pool, so late at night that the pool’s almost empty. There are a few people doing laps on the far end, sectioned off by ropes. Mostly he and Jim are just existing in the water, occasionally throwing a plastic ball back and forth or sitting in the corner near the jets.

Spock is in black shorts and Jim is in black... shorts. Although underwear might be a better definition. It’s not quite a speedo, but the fabric is very tight, and it just barely covers Jim’s rear. It clings to him whenever he climbs out of the water, showing off everything.

Every bit of Jim is all on display. Even when he’s in the water. He’s glistening with it. His blue eyes seem even brighter reflected off the water, and it compliments his yellow hair and his pink lips, and he shaved this morning so his skin is all smooth. His stomach’s tight and lightly muscled, every bit of him strong, but still slender, all the ideal shapes for Vulcan tastes. He’s undeniably gorgeous.

This was a mistake. Spock has to keep forcing himself to look away, and several times, he catches Jim staring at him in return, which always makes his cheeks turn green. Next to Jim, he’s nothing to look at. There are two females in bikinis over by a kiosk in the corner, up on the tile, lounging at a little table. But for once, Jim doesn’t even look at them. He swims up to Spock and says, “We should go down the slide again.”

The slide is up a very long ladder, painted a neon blue and entirely enclosed in a plastic circle that winds out of the building and back in again, depositing water into the pool’s corner. Spock doesn’t particularly understand the concept of waterslides, but he says, “Alright,” simply because Jim is irresistible like this. Jim reaches for his hand under the water and turns, awkwardly paddling over to the ladder. Spock does his best to follow after, feet too high up to touch the bottom of the pool.

As Jim goes up the ladder first, climbing out of the pool and shaking out a few droplets onto Spock, Spock suggests, “Perhaps we should go home after this.”

“Nope,” Jim insists. “The waves’ll come on in another ten minutes, and I didn’t come to a wave pool to not have waves.”

There is no tide that governs indoor pools, but Spock imagines humans have managed to simulate something, for reasons he can’t fathom. He doesn’t argue. He follows Jim up the ladder, trying not to look up between Jim’s legs. When they reach the top, Jim sits down on the little, railed-off platform, legs in the rushing water. The rest of the platform is mostly dry, atop a giant tube that brings the water up. Jim pats his thigh and says, “Let’s ride it together. Get in my lap.”

“Absolutely not,” Spock says very stiffly.

“C’mon, why not?”

“That would not be... safe.” Both in a usual precautions sense and in the sense of Spock controlling his body’s reaction. Jim waves his hand dismissively.

“Kids do it with their parents all the time.”

“I am not your parent.”

“Be my kid for once,” Jim laughs. “C’mon, you got to help raise me for years, at least let me take you down a waterslide.”

“Absolutely not.”

“ _Spock_ ,” Jim whines, and he leans his head back so that his blond hair brushes and tickles Spock’s knees. “Please?” When Jim begs like that, it’s always so incredibly difficult to say no.

Spock walks around Jim feeling ridiculously awkward, and he nervously climbs down into Jim’s lap. Jim has to scoot back so they don’t go rushing down the slide, and then he presses up along Spock’s back, thighs warm against Spock’s legs, wet crotch digging into his rear, both sets of fabric too thin. Spock’s breathing very quickly. Jim’s arms wrap around him, and it’s sort of like when they ride the hovercruiser together. They’re roughly the same height—it’s nothing like what a parent and child would be like.

Jim’s warm breath is ghosting over Spock’s ear. Spock half expects Jim to say something, but he doesn’t.

He pushes them off, and they go roaring down the slide, ridiculously fast. The seams in the plastic bump unpleasantly against the underside of Spock’s legs, but at least Jim’s saving him from the water pounding at his back. The tunnels’ dark inside, twisting and translucent where the light is, and Jim cheers loudly in his ear. Spock doesn’t know what to do with his arms, and his hands instinctively clutch at Jim’s thighs, holding on. Jim’s holding onto him so tightly. The adrenaline is making Spock dizzy.

A few twists and turns, and they go tumbling right out, smacking into the water, legs intertwined. Spock’s plunged underneath immediately, and Jim lets go of him just in time for him to kick off the bottom of the pool and push back up, coughing and flipping his hair back. He kicks in place and uses one hand to slick his bangs out of his eyes, spluttering lightly and wiping the water from his eyelashes. Jim laughs and tosses his head back, getting Spock wet again. “That was awesome!”

Before Jim can suggest they do it again, Spock dives back under the water and swims away. It’s pleasantly cool around his warm skin, hotter wherever Jim touched him. He needs to stop giving into that. Needs more Vulcan control. He can see the large, striped ball bobbing a few meters away, and he heads there, surfacing again to grab it. He’s not surprised to see Jim right behind him, and as soon as Jim’s out of the water, Spock tosses the ball at him. It hits him on the head, and Jim grunts, “Hey!” It’s filled with air, though, and shouldn’t hurt. He picks it up and chucks it back, and for a few moments, they toss it back and forth, just to kill time.

Then the waves come, sudden and unexpected. It’s just on their part of the pool—there’s a connected line to another rectangle where the others are doing laps. They’re far enough away that the waves are subtle, but at the other end—near the deeper water—they’re quite large. Spock’s not exactly sure what the point of them is, but Jim seems excited. “Let’s grab some boards and try to get to the end.” Before Spock can ask why, Jim says, “Because I said so.” ...They know each other very well.

There are various flotation devices along the edge of the pool, and they both swim over to pull down two small, foam boards, about as large as their chests. They both lean over their respective boards, Spock just copying Jim. They face the other end of the pool, and Jim says, “Ready?” Spock feels distinctly like a child. But he nods. “Go!”

And they both start to kick their legs, propelling through the water. It occurs to Spock that Jim means it as a race, and from a competition standpoint, it makes slightly more sense. Spock frantically swims forward as best he can, making decent headway until a wave comes and knocks him half a meter back. Spluttering and seeing Jim still going, Spock sets to swimming again, doing his best to dodge the next wave by lifting his board up and riding it. It’s a difficult thing to balance, and he has to paddle frantically in between waves to make any progress, but he does. The waves get larger and more intense near the end, until Spock finds himself continually checking to see that Jim hasn’t drowned. It’s an irrational fear, of course, but protecting Jim is always at the back of his mind.

There’s a hole along the side where the waves are being generated from, and the surround tile ground goes up too high to reach. Jim holds onto the hole with one hand, buoyantly riding the waves to stay in place. Spock joins him a moment later, and Jim laughs, “I win!”

Spock concedes, “Congratulations.” Jim just smiles at him. For awhile, they just stay there, attempting to manage the artificial tide. It’s hard to talk over the sound of the rushing water, but Spock does spend a lot of time just looking at Jim. Jim’s particularly radiant when he’s happy.

When the waves finally desist a dozen minutes later, Spock’s stomach is churning. He suggests, “Perhaps it is time to retire and get something to eat?”

Jim sighs. Spock half expects him to fight, but he nods and says, “Okay. I want to get a drink from the concession stand.” Spock lifts an eyebrow, suspecting alcohol as the intended drink, and Jim rolls his eyes. “Just one. It’ll be fine. They don’t give you the hard stuff, and you’re driving, anyway.” This is true. Jim’s usually very manageable after one beer—he shouldn’t lose his head to it.

That’s exactly what he orders as soon as they climb out of the pool, and once it’s in his hand, they head to the showers. They wash the chlorine out of their hair, and then they go into the changing rooms to dry off. They shared a locker, but after Spock extracts his towel and clothes, he walks around to the other side of the lockers so that he and Jim are separated. It’s late enough that the changing rooms are empty. Jim sighs from around the other side, “We’re all men here.”

Spock doesn’t answer. He’s heard that before and deduced it means nothing. He simply towels himself off and pulls down his swim trunks, stepping into fresh underwear and pants. Then he tugs a white t-shirt over his head, and he folds his old underwear and wet swim trunks up in the towel. He’s careful to call before heading over, “Are you decent, Jim?”

“I’m never decent.”

A joke, Spock presumes. He waits a moment, and then Jim sighs, “Alright, I’m good.” He comes out, holding his own towel under his arm, dressed in a similar t-shirt and jeans. He’s still sprinkled with beads of water, hair slicked down around his forehead.

Still gorgeous. Too gorgeous. He takes a sip of his beer and gestures for the doors, and they head out together. At the car, Jim downs the rest of his beer and tosses it into a recycling bin on the side of the building. Spock deposits both of their towels in a bag so as not to get the car wet. He leaves the bag in the back, and Jim sits up at the front with him.

Spock half hopes the wind on the way home doesn’t completely dry them off, but that’s a horrible thought he has to shake. There’s no sense longing after something he can’t have. Unfortunately, Jim being so handsome is turning into a large problem.

While Spock drives them home, Jim talks languidly about unimportant things, activities during their swim and games they can play when they get home. The stars are out, but Spock still intends to enjoy an apple or perhaps a banana when they get there. Jim talks him into playing more of Deep Space Seven, which, somehow, they still have yet to beat. Jim simultaneously blames Spock and insists Spock play with him every time, which doesn’t make any sense. Jim asks, “Do you want to be the captain when we play Deep Space Eight?”

Spock’s not sure they’ll live together long enough for that. But the reason he gives for his no is, “I believe you would make a better captain.”

“You’re the best first officer ever,” Jim says, and Spock thinks he’s being sincere. Even though Spock knows that when they actually play the game, Jim will say something very different. It’s part of their dynamic, he supposes. It’s always a wonder how their conflicting personalities never quite push them apart. Jim chalks it up to their ‘connection.’ Spock does wonder.

By the time they get home, it’s cold. Spock eats a banana in the kitchen while Jim sets up their game and moves blankets down from his room. It’s much too late to play video games, but Spock is having a better time than he’d ever admit to another Vulcan, and he’s not inclined to let it end. When he comes into the living room, the viewscreen isn’t turned on. Their controllers are sitting on the table. Spock walks over to the couch, where Jim’s built a little cocoon for them in the blankets. Spock climbs into it, next to Jim, and Jim tucks him in, wrapping them up. Spock looks at Jim, waiting for him to give the computer the order. The lights are off to set the mood, and the pale moonlight washes over the side of Jim’s still-slightly-damp face.

Jim’s so close that their legs are touching. Their shoulders are brushing. Jim’s looking at him back, too close, the room too very warm. Jim puts one of his hands on Spock’s thigh; Spock’s eyes flicker down to look at it.

Jim’s at the side of his face. Jim licks his ear. Spock shivers and whispers, “Jim...” They can’t do this.

They’re always doing this.

It isn’t okay. Even with months between, nothing’s made it okay, but Jim’s kissing the side of his face, nibbling on the shell of his ear, running up the point. Spock puts his hands against Jim’s chest and repeats, just as weak but more upset, “Jim...”

Jim makes a frustrated growl and pulls back, only a few centimeters, pressing his forehead against Spock’s. His hand is sliding up Spock’s inner thigh, getting closer and closer to the reaction Spock shouldn’t be having. His other hand reaches to Spock’s waist, and Spock’s shirt feels too thin. Jim’s eyes are closed. Spock’s are half lidded. Jim hisses, “Tell me you don’t love me.”

“ _What?_ ” Spock could never say that. Even if he weren’t Vulcan. Even if he could lie.

Jim opens his eyes and pulls back enough for them to see each other, though their noses are almost brushing. Jim’s palm reaches the bulge in Spock’s pants, pressing, and Spock has to bite the inside of his cheek not to react. His hands are limp against Jim. He should stop this. “If you tell me you don’t love me, I swear I’ll stop,” Jim says. His eyebrows are knit together. He looks _hurt_ and _beautiful._ “I’ll never bother you again, I promise... but you have to say you don’t want me...”

 _Want_ is something different. It isn’t love. But Spock wants Jim too, and the Vulcan in him doesn’t want to lie, and the human in him doesn’t want Jim to ever, ever leave him alone. He doesn’t know what to do. No, he knows what he should do, but he can’t do it. Jim’s cupping him through his pants, massaging him, lifting up his shirt and gently running a warm finger along his skin between the two sets of fabric. It’s subtle, but Spock’s overwhelmed by it. He’s stronger than Jim. He could push Jim off him right now and leave.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything. He opens his mouth uselessly, and Jim tilts his head, bringing their lips together. Spock moans shamefully the second Jim’s tongue is in his mouth. Then he whimpers, because Jim’s hand is leaving him—he actually _whimpers_ , how pathetic—and then it’s at the top of his fly, undoing it. Jim opens the fabric, and his fingers slip inside, right down Spock’s skin, down through his dark curls, beneath his underwear. Spock has a sharp intake of breath. Jim swallows it. Jim’s hand slips right over Spock’s dick, already hard and throbbing beneath the touch. Jim wraps around it and _moans_ , like this is all he’s ever wanted. He pulls their lips apart, foreheads still together. There’s a thin trail of saliva strung between them. Jim squeezes Spock’s dick, stroking it gently.

Spock’s so useless. His cock’s so hard. It’s taken over his head. He whines, “Jim,” breathlessly, like he’s already done so many times.

Jim moans, “Fuck, I love the way you say my name.”

Spock makes a mental note to shut up. He can’t encourage this. Jim’s pumping him up and down. Spock’s eyebrows knit together, and he makes a sharp keening sound. He needs to stop this. He can’t. His fingers are clawed useless in Jim’s shirt. Jim strokes him slowly, hand so perfect. “I want you so badly,” Jim whispers, kissing the side of Spock’s face, right at his ear again. “I love everything about you so much. The thought of you leaving me makes me mental. I don’t want to go to the Academy without you, Spock. I want to wrap you up in my pocket and take you fucking everywhere with me. I want to take you right up to my bed, and lay you down, and make sweet love to you, and hold you in my arms until we both fall asleep. I want to have you inside me, and I want to fill you up. I want to wake up to your handsome face every morning. I want you so, so much...”

Spock feels like he’s hyperventilating. His pulse is racing through his veins, and his hips are trembling not to buck up into Jim’s hands. His head is on overload and thinning, unable to handle it. His skin is burning up. He can feel Jim all over him. All he’s ever wanted. He wants Jim so badly, so much more than Jim could ever understand. But... but...

Jim looks so sincere. Almost close to tears. He means it. He’s holding Spock tight and stroking him expertly, leaning their whole bodies together, legs stretching in the blankets and intertwining awkwardly against the couch. Jim smells like chlorine. He feels so good. “I think of you every time I touch myself,” Jim goes on. Spock’s a shuddering wreck, coming apart in his arms. “I can’t believe you never heard me, or if you did, I guess you just never said anything. I tried to think of other people, I really did, and I tried fucking other people, but you’re all I want. I just want you. Nothing else will do. I’d give up everything if it meant I could keep you. Spock, fuck... you’re my _everything._ ”

Jim’s everything to Spock. Spock’s chest hurts. He needs to wipe at his eyes, to clear them, something isn’t right along his tear ducts. But then he’d have to let go of Jim, and he doesn’t want to. Logic’s all failing him. Jim’s doing so well with his cock, but it’s the words that are really getting him, really making his whole body shake. Jim goes back to kissing him, soft and tender, but still with tongue. Spock kisses back.

Spock kisses _back_. He’s failed. He’s a horrid caretaker. He’s abusing his power and he’s immoral and filthy. But all he can do is kiss Jim and suck on Jim’s tongue and bite Jim’s lips and press back into him, and when Jim moans, it’s music to his ears. Jim pumps him and pumps him, and Jim pulls back to kiss him all over, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, and Jim trails them along his jaw and repeats, “I love you. I love you. I love you so much.”

And everything Spock is unravels before him. He bursts in Jim’s hand and he screams. He buries his head into the side of Jim’s and makes a noise he’s never made before, loud and desperate. His release splatters up between them, and Jim keeps pumping, keeps squeezing, until every drop is out. Spock’s head is completely blank. His hips are jerking involuntarily, body trembling.

When his head slowly begins to come back down, he feels sick and horrible and confused. He finally pulls his hand away, covering his mouth. He’s so ashamed of himself.

Jim tenderly tucks him back in and does his pants back up, while Spock just sits there, frozen.

Jim pulls his hand away gently and kisses him, one last time, closed and soft, right on the lips. Then he pulls back and mumbles, “Think about it. Please think about it.” And he brushes Spock’s bangs back to kiss his forehead before climbing off the couch and strolling out of the living room. Probably back to bed.

Spock curls up on the couch, satiated and limp and spent in every possible way. He wants to run upstairs and holds Jim tight. He should’ve said ‘I love you’ back. But Jim already seems to know it. He should’ve said it anyway.

He can’t be with Jim. He can’t. But he should’ve said it anyway.

When he thinks of losing Jim, his whole heart breaks. When he thinks of being with Jim, he feels like a monster. When he thinks of Jim, he can’t control himself. His eyes are lined in water. It’s a no-win scenario that he can’t get out of. He loves Jim _so much_.

He knows that now, he’ll admit that, and he can’t do a thing about it. He curls up on the couch in Jim’s blanket, and he can smell _Jim_ all around him.

That night, he doesn’t sleep at all.

* * *

It’s only two days. They get a communication from Admiral Kirk. Jim packs his things all up, ready to leave for the Academy, a room already booked. Spock helps him arrange that. Every second Spock spends with Jim is torture, but being apart is worse. It’s something he’ll have to get used to. Both ways. Time will heal him, he knows, but there isn’t enough of it.

He answers the door, and the admiral instantly throws open her arms, encasing Spock in a warm embrace. Spock grunts in surprise and doesn’t move. The admiral pulls back, chuckling. Spock feels horribly guilty. She looks so immeasurably grateful to him, and she doesn’t know that two days ago her son gave him a hand job. Jim must’ve heard the doorbell, because he comes racing down the stairs, and he runs right past Spock to launch himself into his mother’s arms, exclaiming, “Mom!”

“Jim!” the admiral practically cries, squeezing him tight. Then she really does start to cry, and she sobs, “It’s been so long! Oh, you’re so big! You’ve grown all up on me! Oh, Jim, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you all those years—”

“Don’t be silly,” Jim laughs, pulling back. “You kept in touch all those years. Technically, you didn’t miss a single birthday.” The admiral pecks his cheek and pulls him back in.

Spock distinctly feels like he’s intruding. But the admiral says over Jim’s shoulder, “Spock, I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m leaving for the Academy next week,” Jim whines, pulling back and interrupting. “It sucks this is when you get back!”

“Oh, I’m so proud of you!” the admiral simpers. She ruffles Jim’s hair, and he laughs, playfully jerking away. “You’ll come visit me every weekend, of course, and you’ll come home all the time.”

“All the time,” Jim promises. “Spock will too.” Spock’s head whips around to stare at Jim.

Admiral Kirk smiles happily. “Where will you be staying, Spock? You’re welcome to continue living with me, of course!”

“I want him to room with me at the Academy,” Jim insists.

Admiral Kirk says, “That’d be sweet.” Spock’s a little surprised by this—she should know that would be inappropriate given their disparate positions.

He clears his throat and says, “I have secured a small apartment in the city. I will be moving in at the end of the month on the same day as Jim. I would be most grateful if you would allow me to stay in your home for the remaining week.”

“Of course,” the admiral sighs. “I only wish I could keep you longer. But I suppose I’ll be in San Francisco enough to see the both of you quite often. I’ll hold onto the house as a family home though, and just hope that someday my boys come back to me.” She winks, and Jim laughs. Spock thinks that is a highly unlikely scenario, but he politely doesn’t say anything.

“Well,” The admiral announces, and she bends down to pick up her suitcases, which Spock and Jim quickly take from her. “I think it’s about time we had a family dinner. I have seven years of experiences to catch up on—and I know you told me everything you could over the computer, but I want to hear everything I can again while I’m _really_ looking at you.” And she sweeps them into the living room, headed straight for the kitchen.


	8. Nineteen

Spock’s apartment is distinctly cleaner than he’s grown used to. He puts everything away immediately after its use, so there’s never any mess. He puts the recipe for Plomeek Soup into the synthesizer, and then he takes the bowl to the little dining table near the front of his apartment, sitting down to eat. It’s a small place: just this entrance with the kitchenette on one side, a living room space after that, and a bed and bathroom behind it. As Spock spends most of his time either working at the Academy or bent over the console in his bedroom, it suffices.

The soup is satisfactory. Spock stares at nothing in particular while he eats. The walls are all a navy blue: exactly the way they were when he first acquired the place. He has very few personal items. It’s an incorrect attribution, but the apartment feels metaphorically cold and uncharacteristically empty. It’s often too quiet.

He misses Jim.

A lot.

He tries not to think about it while he eats. His instinct is to make food for two, but he has to force that down. He keeps glancing across the table, or worse, at the door, expecting someone to join him. He feels like he used to have things to look forward to, and he doesn’t. He has no desire to talk to others though.

After dinner, he puts his dishes away, and he heads for the desk in the corner of his room. He sits down and turns his console on. He doesn’t get credits for these hours he spends refining his files, but he considers the contribution a benefit to his own personal growth. Besides, he has nothing more productive to do with his time.

He works for several hours before his eyelids grow unbearably heavy. Then he undresses and climbs into bed, ordering the lights off. He thinks, for what isn’t the first time and won’t be the last until he listens, that he needs to purchase a smaller bed. It feels empty too.

Maybe he feels empty.

His Vulcan lute is on the side table, silhouetted by the window and moonlight. The only songs he can think of aren’t happy ones. He should visit Vulcan again some time.

Everything he wants is on Earth.

He closes his eyes and attempts to sleep

* * *

There’s every reason for their friendship to end. Jim no longer has any use for Spock, and yet he calls Spock often. Spock assumes there will be a small period of silence when Jim’s first settling in at the very least, but Jim barrages him with questions, and he helps Jim move. Jim keeps a lot of his stuff at his home in Iowa, but he has far more things than Spock in general, and his dormitory still fills up fast. Jim has a small living space with a kitchenette on one side and two beds in the room behind it. Jim will get another roommate that won’t be Spock. Spock doesn’t look forward to that.

But it happens, Spock knows. It must’ve happened by now. Spock’s console beeps, and he exits the bathroom just in time to catch it. Jim’s smiling on the other side, and he says, “Hey, you should come visit tonight. I _finally_ finished all my assignments, but I’m sure I’ll be buried again on Monday. You can meet my roomy.”

Since he started, he’s been working nonstop. They haven’t had much chance to see each other in person. Spock misses that. He probably shouldn’t, but he nods.

“Cool.” Jim smiles. “Come by anytime; we’ve got food.” And he flicks his end off.

 _We_. It’s strange to have Jim being a part of a ‘we’ that Spock isn’t in. He wonders vaguely what Jim’s notion of food is—probably potato chips or something equally as inadequate. But Spock isn’t hungry. Perhaps he should bring Jim food. Jim might need feeding properly. He looked fine. He’s old enough. Spock shouldn’t be so... overprotective. He knows that.

He convinces himself to leave empty handed, and he locks his apartment behind him, heading down to the lobby via the elevator. Then it’s across a few streets to the Academy, and he walks down a winding path through the gardens. He knows where Jim’s room is exactly. It’s a little dark outside, but they have time. Spock will make sure to leave early—Jim needs proper rest, especially with how fast he’s accelerating through his program. When Spock reaches Jim’s room, he knocks.

A man, young but older than him, answers, without much of a smile. He’s wearing a crimson cadet uniform, brown hair brushed to the side and a bit of stubble on his chin. He isn’t Jim.

He looks over his shoulder and grunts, “Jim! ‘This your old roommate?”

“Bones!” Jim scolds, hurrying into sight behind the other man. “Jeez, let him in, you idiot!”

“Well, I don’t know!” this ‘Bones’ character retorts, hands rising defensively. “Maybe he’s a burglar!”

“There aren’t any burglars around the dorms,” Jim snorts, and he pushes the other man aside and taps the panel on the wall, causing the doors to open all the way. Jim grabs Spock’s hand and drags him inside. Spock feels mildly uncomfortable already. But the doors slide shut behind him.

“This is Spock,” Jim introduces, lightly tapping Spock’s chest. “We were... friends, growing up.”

“Leonard McCoy,” the other man says, visibly sizing Spock up.

“Don’t mind him,” Jim laughs, looking at Spock whilst patting McCoy on the shoulder. “He’s perpetually grumpy; it’s not you. He’s great when he warms up to you, I swear.”

The glare McCoy gives Jim says otherwise, but there’s a slight smile on his lips. Perhaps it’s a playful glare. Spock doesn’t know McCoy well enough to tell, and frankly, from the way McCoy is standing so close to Jim, Spock doesn’t have much interest in knowing him.

But that’s a rude judgment, and he attempts to shake it off, so to speak. McCoy has done nothing to him and doesn’t deserve to be disliked simply for knowing Jim. Jim deserves friends. Jim tells McCoy, “Spock stayed at my house with me a lot in Iowa. You should come see it sometime.”

McCoy visibly shivers. “Another transporter ride? No thanks.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Jim whines. “They’re totally safe!”

“They completely are not. Scrambling my molecules and jerking them hallway across the world—” McCoy starts to grumble, but Spock cuts him off.

“Iowa is hardly halfway across the world.”

Looking mildly taken aback, McCoy says, “Whatever, you know what I mean. Transporters are not my cup of tea.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock insists, “I assure you, Federation transporters are completely safe, Mr. McCoy.”

“Well I don’t like ‘em, Mr. Spock,” McCoy counters. “And I don’t need some green-blooded Federation lackey telling me otherwise.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together. McCoy is being completely irrational, as he himself is in a Federation regulated school, so expressing dislike for them isn’t much of an insult. On top of that, Spock’s both mildly impressed that McCoy knows the colour of his blood and mildly confused as to what the relevance of that is. McCoy must study xenobiology.

“Anyway,” Jim says loudly, grinning as though this unpleasant exchange is cute. “What do you guys wanna do? Hang out? Watch a movie? Play cards?”

“Drink,” McCoy says. Jim laughs, but Spock frowns. McCoy brushes past him anyway and heads for the kitchenette, calling, “I’m getting bourbon. Anybody else want anything?”

“I’m good,” Jim says, and when McCoy snorts disbelievingly, Jim grins and explains, “Spock doesn’t drink, and I don’t want him to be the only one sober.”

“I’ll be practically sober. You can barely tell when I’ve had a few.”

“Of course I can; you get all whiny instead of angry and profess your undying love to me every time.”

Pouring himself a glass out of a large bottle, McCoy glares. “Don’t even joke about that.”

But Jim turns to Spock and insists, “He loves me.”

It sort of hurts to hear that. But it’s obvious it isn’t the same sort of love that they share. Jim’s just met McCoy, and they’re teasing. Spock assumes Jim’s description of him drunk is also a joke; it’s hard to picture McCoy confessing love to anyone. Jim grabs Spock’s hand and drags him towards the couch, asking, “What should we do?”

“I am amenable to your choice.” Spock doesn’t have any preference.

McCoy brings cards out of the bedroom and pulls up a chair, and the three of them play some complicated game that Spock proves to be best at solely due to his ‘straight face.’ Several games in, McCoy calls him a cheat and several other things, but Jim always laughs it off and keeps them going. McCoy has a very gruff personality, but it’s easy to see as the night progresses that he is fond of Jim, despite everything. When he mentions his ex wife, Spock finds himself more agreeable towards him. Jim even jokes, “I tried to turn him, but he’s stuck on women.”

“You’re tempting,” McCoy sighs, while his face says the exact opposite. “...But there’s no way in hell.”

“Bah, I didn’t want you anyway.”

McCoy laughs loudly: a product of the alcohol. He leans back in his chair, legs spreading. “Don’t be stupid; everybody wants to bone Bones.” And then he laughs at his own joke, and Jim breaks out into hysterics. Spock feels a little left out; it’s difficult enough to ascertain which comments are sincere and which made in jest; he can never quite catch up fast enough to join in the laughter. Although, he probably wouldn’t anyway.

There’s little point resuming their game; Jim is losing too spectacularly to catch up, and McCoy’s a lost cause. They end up cleaning up the cards, and Jim says, “Let’s watch a movie.”

But Spock glances at the clock and decides, “It is getting very late. As a young cadet, it is vital for you to maintain a regular sleep pattern.”

“Spock,” Jim scoffs, “I’m in Starfleet Academy. No one sleeps.”

“I slept more with the wife kicking me,” McCoy throws in, which Spock assumes is meant to buttress Jim’s point.

But Spock is adamant, and he stands up, excusing himself. With a reluctant sigh, Jim walks him to the door. There’s a moment in their goodbyes when Spock just takes it all in; Jim in another place, adjusting so perfectly, done up all in red. The uniform fits him tightly, and he looks just as lovely as he always has. He’s living on his own now. Well, mostly. He’s dated other people, and he’s got other friends. He’s got another... ‘co-pilot.’

Spock lives elsewhere, but he hasn’t moved on at all. He has no interest in dating. Jim says quietly while Spock’s half out into the night air, “Come back soon.”

Spock says, “Good luck with your studies.”

Jim nods. He’s smiling, but it looks a little forced. He lifts his hand, waving, and Spock leaves, listening to the door close behind him.

* * *

Spock’s doorbell rings, and he pulls his shirt back over his head. He was just about to get ready for bed. Instead, he strolls to the door, keying it open. Jim’s on the other side, all crimson again, holding a PADD. He says, “Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Sorry, I know it’s late, but I have an assignment in tactical analysis I could use your help on.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Tactical analysis is your best class.”

“Not anymore.” Jim shrugs. “Survival strategies are now. But I think I can catch up in this. I already wrote my paper—I just need a second pair of eyes on it, you know?”

“As a member of the Academy faculty, that would hardly be appropriate.”

“You’re not my professor.” Which is true.

And then Jim makes it so much worse. He gets a pleading look on his face, and he leans forward, begging, “Spock, please?”

Most strangely, Spock’s throat goes dry. His cheeks feel a little hot. He says, “Very well,” and he steps aside, allowing a grinning Jim to walk right in. The doors close behind him, and Spock turns to follow him through the kitchen. Jim strolls right past the living room, right into the bedroom, and he kicks off his shoes and climbs onto the mattress. The white bed is made. Jim’s cadet uniform looks particularly striking against it.

He must see Spock’s frown, because when he looks up, he assures Spock, “Bones is off in an hour or two, and then we’re going out for dinner. I told him I’d be here, so don’t worry, I’m not going to be tormenting you all night.”

Spock wants to say that Jim isn’t tormenting him, but the Vulcan in him doesn’t want to lie. Seeing Jim in his bed is... difficult.

Jim sits innocently against the headboard and clicks a few things on his PADD, and eventually, Spock takes a seat next to him. There isn’t enough room on the bed for them to sit very far apart, but Spock does his best to inconspicuously keep his distance. Their knees brush. If anything else brushes, Spock’s not sure he’ll be able to control himself. He has to lean over a bit to see Jim’s PADD.

“I’ve left a few spaces for things I think I might need to add and underlined some stuff that might need changing,” Jim says.

“I would not feel comfortable giving you answers given our respective positions,” Spock replies. He could never be a professor, because if Jim were in his class, he would never be able to remain objective. He couldn’t _not_ play favourites. Well, favourite. Jim’s his favourite... everything.

Somehow, he thought that would change with them living apart and seeing less of each other. It didn’t. There are times when Spock can go a whole week—perhaps even a month—without seeing Jim. But then he just feels even colder, emptier. And he’ll get a communication of Jim whining about being piled under schoolwork, and Spock will express pride and withhold longing. Sometimes he thinks he should just go into space and put as much distance between them as possible. Other times, that thought breaks him.

Jim says softly, “That’s okay. Can you look over what I have, then? Just give me your thoughts?” He hands the PADD over. Spock takes it, fingers lingering over Jim’s. Jim’s hands are so much bigger than when Spock used to hold them way back when. He’s grateful he didn’t know Jim any younger, sometimes.

Jim’s paper is very articulate. It’s lengthy, but that’s good for that Academy. Jim sits in silence while Spock reads it, and once he gets up to use the washroom, then comes right back. He leans his head on Spock’s shoulder and wraps one arm around Spock’s, and Spock should become rigid and tense, but he doesn’t. He glances down at Jim and says, “Jim...” The PADD lowers.

Jim whispers, “I miss you.” He squeezes Spock’s arm.

Spock knows what he has to say, but his tongue has grown too thick, mouth incapable of opening. He leans his head against Jim’s, just for a moment, he tells himself. Just for a second. He says just as quietly, “I miss you too.”

The doorbell rings. Spock jerks back. He hands the PADD to Jim and slides off the bed, walking back through the apartment, shaking and not sure if he’s just been saved or not. The doors open. McCoy comes in, noting, “Barren place you got here, pointy.”

Jim joins them, carrying his PADD. He glances at Spock, and Spock says, “Your work is very insightful. I believe your professor will be most impressed.” Jim smiles gratefully.

“Thanks, Spock.”

And he nods a goodbye, and they’re leaving out the door together. McCoy gives Spock a curious look, and Spock has the inexplicable urge to tell McCoy to take care of Jim. But that would sound absurd, especially since McCoy is considerably older than him. And Jim doesn’t need taking care of anymore.

Won’t Jim always need someone there?

Spock sometimes wonders what it would be like to have someone taking care of him. Then he remembers the one time he fell ill when Jim was a teenager, and Jim told him to lie down and fed him soup until the doctor came and healed him. There are other times too, but that’s the one that comes to mind first. Most of the times Spock’s needed someone, it’s been subtler, always rare.

Jim’s always been there for him. Spock thinks that if he opened his door and called out right now, Jim would come running right back to him.

He goes back to his room and pulls his shirt off, ready to sleep.

* * *

Admiral Pike is considering taking the Enterprise out for a peaceful expedition in a nearby galaxy, although it’s still undergoing a few adjustments. He suggests Spock coming along as his science officer several times, but Spock still has mixed opinions on the subject. They’ve found their way out into the hall, at an intersection, both about to go their separate ways. Admiral Pike says, “We’ve still got time before she’s ready. Think about it, Mr. Spock.”

“I will, Admiral. Thank you.”

The Admiral pats him on the shoulder and turns, heading down a long corridor. Spock has a lot to think about. If he’s logical about it, it would be a clear advancement for him. However, he can still justify ways to take ground assignments.

He’s halfway down his hallway when he looks up, through the various students milling about, and he spots a familiar blond head down at the end. Jim’s talking to someone next to a fire exit, tucked away in the corner, and the two of them are standing very inappropriately close.

The man’s clearly a Vulcan. He has straight-cut, black hair, and he’s wearing a red cadet uniform like Jim. He’s probably Jim’s age. He nods at something Jim says, and Jim laughs.

Spock realizes belatedly that he’s stopped walking. He forces himself to keep moving again, face fixed forward, arms behind his back, posture straight. As though nothing out of the ordinary is happening. But as soon as he passes them, Jim turns and says, “Spock.”

So Spock is forced to halt again, and he turns and says curtly, “Jim.” He wants to keep walking. He wants to go home.

Jim nods at the man next to him. “I want you to meet someone.”

So Spock has no choice. He turns to them, and he holds his hands up in the Vulcan salute, and the man mirrors the action. “This is my friend I was telling you about,” Jim says to the Vulcan. He tells Spock, “This is Suval, my boyfriend.”

Something sinks into Spock’s stomach, as though he’s just swallowed a large chunk of rubble. His face remains neutral, but his hands are tense at his sides. He’s well aware that Jim has a tendency to... form connections... with others. But it’s usually females, and when it has been males, he’s never introduced them as official. And Suval... Suval’s Vulcan.

Suval can’t give Jim anything Spock couldn’t. Spock tells himself that he turned Jim down. That he needed Jim to move on. That this is what’s supposed to happen.

It feels like it isn’t though. Like it’s all wrong. That’s not... that’s not an intellectual assumption. There’s no such thing as a new situation being inherently _wrong._ Spock has nothing to say, and he doesn’t say anything.

Suval says, “Cadet Kirk speaks most highly of you, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Cadet.”

At least Spock outranks him. If Spock goes with Admiral Pike, he’ll be promoted to lieutenant commander. Perhaps then he could order Suval sent back into space. That would be ridiculous. Why did he even think that? He shouldn’t have thought that. His eyes run from the bottom of Suval’s polished boots to the top of his head, but he’s a Vulcan, through and through, and there’s nothing to pick up otherwise from his appearance. He looks tightly done up. Hardly Jim’s type.

Jim says smoothly, “We’re going to dinner. Do you wanna join us? You could talk about... whatever Vulcans talk about.”

Jim knows exactly what Vulcans talk about. He’s spoken with Spock for years. Spock says too abruptly, “I have work to attend to.”

And he salutes Suval again before continuing down the corridor, steps faster than when he started. He tells himself that he just wants Jim to be happy, but he knows that isn’t true.

* * *

Somehow, Spock gets dragged to the movies. Nearly physically dragged. They show up at his apartment and practically abduct him, and when Spock tries to tell Jim no, McCoy pulls him aside and snarls that if McCoy has to sit through this and be an awkward third wheel, Spock has to come and be the fourth one. Jim and Suval walk hand and hand in front of them down the street, while McCoy hangs back with Spock and they end up arguing, somehow, over Tenebrian flues. Apparently, McCoy is studying to be a Starfleet doctor. From the sounds of it, he’s more than qualified.

He’s an agreeable counterpart despite their disagreements, and the trip is almost bearable. But then they take their seats, and Jim and Suval sit next to each other, and Jim throws his arm over the back of Suval’s chair. A true Vulcan: Suval has no response. McCoy insists Spock sit next to Jim because, “Those lovebirds are making me sick.” And although that doesn’t make any sense, the words give Spock an unpleasantly similar feeling.

“Actually, can you guys get popcorn?” Jim asks, turning to them. “And maybe some drinks?”

“You cost more credits than my wife did,” McCoy grumbles, but he stands. Simply because Spock doesn’t want to be left behind with Jim holding someone else, he chooses to follow McCoy.

The lobby of the theatre is dark, perhaps to set the mood. There’s a large crowd in front of the concession area, and the two of them get stuck waiting in line. It’s dark out the windows—Jim’s only ever free at night, after class. Everyone’s in casual clothes again, and McCoy looks fairly attractive in his black pants and white shirt, dark jacket over top. Spock has the bitter feeling that he’d rather have Jim date McCoy, but then he takes it back. He comments as free of intonations as possible, “Jim seems happy.”

McCoy snorts. “Seriously, Spock?” He looks at Spock in a half incredulous, half pitying sort of way. Someone receives their popcorn, and the line moves up. “It’s obvious he’s just doing it to make _someone_ jealous.” He doesn’t have to specify who he means.

Spock isn’t sure if that’s the case. That would be a pointless endeavor. It would also be highly unfair to Suval, who doubtless finds Jim as attractive and fascinating as anyone would. When Spock doesn’t respond, he half expects McCoy to tease him. But McCoy doesn’t say anything else about it. They wait until they get to the front of the line, and McCoy purchases a large popcorn and two drinks, and he asks Spock, “Do you want anything?”

He wants Jim. That’s his gut response and it’s a stupid one. He says, “No.”

He helps carry the food and drinks back into the theatre, and when he finds himself standing at the end of the aisle, McCoy walks right past him. He’s frozen again. Jim is kissing Suval—no, _making out_ with Suval—right in the middle of the theatre. It’s dark, and they’re sitting farther back and near the end, so less people will see them, but it’s still public. Apparently, Suval isn’t such a model Vulcan after all.

McCoy stops to drag Spock back with him, and they retake their seats. McCoy hisses, “Cut it out, you two.”

And Jim disentangles himself, sheepishly mumbling, “Sorry. Thanks.” He takes the drink and deposits it in the cup-holder between him and Suval. McCoy keeps the popcorn, but Jim steals a large amount throughout the course of the movie.

Spock barely pays attention to anything that happens on the screen. He wonders distantly why he came today. Halfway through, McCoy leans over in his chair and hisses into Spock’s ear, “Just pay attention to the goddamn movie.”

And Spock does his best to listen—doctor’s orders. For the last twenty minutes, it helps.

But then the movie ends, and he’s back in reality, and it’s just the way he left it.

* * *

When Spock returns home from another meeting with Admiral Pike, he finds a communication from Admiral Kirk on his computer. Apparently, he’s invited back to Iowa for dinner. Jim is too. Spock’s about to answer when his personal communicator goes off in his pocket, and he pulls it out without looking.

“Hello?”

 _“Hey, did you get Mom’s invite?”_ Jim asks.

Spock says dully, “Yes.”

_“I’m gunna head over to headquarters; where should I meet you?”_

Jim isn’t really asking. He’s presuming Spock will go, and by all accounts, he should. It would be nice to see the admiral again.

However, he’s not sure he can.

He thinks of being in that house with Jim all over again, listening to Jim talk to the admiral about his new boyfriend. That’s... not something Spock wants to do.

Spock isn’t a Kirk, despite how they sometimes act. He can let them have their time. Jim asks, _“Spock? You still there?”_

“I have... an assignment here,” Spock says. He has nothing pressing, but he always has assignments. “I am afraid I cannot make it tonight.” Not without having to be reminded of everything currently tearing him apart, anyway.

He feels like he can hear Jim frowning. _“Are... are you sure? You can’t get away for just an hour or two? Mom’ll be really disappointed...”_

“I will send her my sincere apologies.”

Jim sighs, but he says, _“Okay. I’ll see if I can maybe drag Bones there; she made dinner for three. Have... have a good night, Spock.”_

“Live long and prosper, Jim.”

_“Don’t do that; you know it makes me feel weird. Sounds so final.”_

“My apologies.”

Jim sighs again. _“S’okay. C’ya.”_

And he hangs up, leaving Spock alone in his tiny apartment.

* * *

As the Klingons fire, Jim shouts, “Bones, Bones, Bones!” And Spock gets a vivid flashback to the two of them playing video games on the couch in Iowa.

“We’re all out of phasers, Captain!” McCoy shouts back, just as agitated. But their emotional involvement in the scenario doesn’t help them. The final torpedoes hit them, and all the lights on the mock bridge shut down, leaving the crew in the relative darkness of just the one overhead ceiling light. From the other side of the window, Spock sees Jim groan and slump back in his fake captain’s chair. When the training program started, he looked quite at home in it.

Now he’s slinking out the doors behind the rest of his fake crew, McCoy patting his shoulders and muttering, “It’s the Kobayashi Maru, Jim. Nobody passes it.”

Spock’s already made it out his adjacent door, stopping them in the hallway. “He is correct, Jim.”

McCoy says, “It’s so weird when you agree with me.”

Spock tilts his head subtly, which is his way of hopefully communicating a quiet message. To his astonishment, McCoy nods. He pats Jim’s shoulder again and says, “Later, kid.” And then he’s off, weaving back through the crowd.

Jim shrugs up at Spock, still looking downcast. It’s odd to see that expression on Jim—it doesn’t fit his bright face. He mumbles, “It’s not... it’s not the only reason I’m down.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Spock asks, “Oh?”

“I broke up with Suval.” And Jim looks at Spock carefully, while Spock struggles not to show emotion.

“I am sad for you.”

“You’re sad?”

Spock’s lips tighten. “A human phrase meant to convey condolences.” In actuality, he’s the closest thing to content he’s been in a while, but he’s not about to say that. Jim looks at him for several quiet seconds while the halls of the Academy bustle around them, sunlight streaming in through the open doors at the end. Jim’s in a blue-and-grey faux-uniform, and Spock’s in his grey work uniform.

Jim says right in the middle of everything, “Go out with me.”

Spock frowns. His stomach hurts all over again. Or maybe that’s from the news with Suval; maybe this is happiness. He opens his mouth, but he can’t say anything.

Jim shakes his head, releases a frustrated breath, and turns to walk away. As he disappears through the crowd, Spock stares after his back. He should’ve stopped caring about Spock by now, but apparently, he hasn’t. Jim never did accept no-win scenarios.

Spock’s not entirely sure what he would’ve said if he had that extra second.

* * *

Spock’s just about to put his chip in the synthesizer when his console beeps. He puts the chip down on the counter and heads to the other room, flicking on the image of Jim’s smiling face.

“Hey, I finally got another free night! Miss me?”

It’s been several weeks since they last spoke. Spock says simply, “Yes.”

Jim grins. “Same to you. Bones and I are gonna hit the pub—wanna come?”

Pubs are hardly Spock’s idea of an enjoyable evening, but it’s been too long for him to pass up a chance. Besides, he is hungry. He nods.

“Awesome. We’ll meet you in the lobby of your building in a few minutes, okay?” And the screen flickers off.

Spock straightens up. Judging from the distance between their mutual residences, there isn’t sufficient time to begin work on anything. There’s no point making food if he’s about to go out with the purpose of getting food. He’ll need to use up his short time another way.

After glancing surreptitiously down his own front, he decides that a more aesthetically pleasing outfit would be prudent. It won’t do to embarrass Jim in front of McCoy. Spock heads to his closet and sorts through his clothes, and he finds a faux-leather jacket hanging there that Jim left last time he was over. Spock should bring it back.

Instead, he pulls out a long-sleeved, white button-up shirt that Jim bought him the last time they went shopping together. Spock doesn’t quite understand the design, but Jim seemed to think he looked good in.

So Spock does up all the buttons and rolls down the sleeves, checking himself in the bathroom mirror before heading downstairs. He finds a couch in the lobby, and he sits there for approximately seven minutes before Jim and McCoy show up, laughing together over the tail end of a joke that Spock didn’t catch. He stands up as soon as they arrive, lifting his hand stiffly in greeting.

Jim’s let his stubble grow out again, just enough that the golden fuzz is all visible. When he smiles, it reaches his eyes. He announces first, “You look good.”

“Thank you.”

“I think your vision is due for another checkup,” McCoy throws in. Jim laughs, but it can’t take back what Jim already said. Then they’re heading outside, and Spock’s internally scolding himself for not returning the compliment fast enough. But it wouldn’t really matter. Jim always looks good. He must know that.

They find a small, crowded bar down the street, with a large group of people in front standing around and talking that they have to weave through. The interior is noisy and dim, and Jim takes them right up to the counter, and they take their seats on tall stools. A quick scan of the location reveals not a single Vulcan, which doesn’t surprise Spock in the least. They’ve barely sat down when Jim excuses himself to the washroom.

Spock is uncomfortable here. Everything about it is so not him, as Jim would say. He leans in when McCoy leans across Jim’s empty seat, mostly just for something familiar.

McCoy has a very serious look on his face, and he grunts, “Cut it out.”

Spock frowns. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” McCoy says. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but Jim’s turning into my best friend fast, and he means a lot to me. I don’t like seeing him hurt.”

Spock’s still confused, but he says, “Neither do I.”

“Then quit fucking around with him.”

This is... a more complicated situation than Spock can explain over a bar stool in a crowded, misty-aired, dark, public place. Spock is frowning very hard.

McCoy continues, “He’s miserable without you, you know. Sure, he fucks other people, but he whines about you after it every single goddamn time. Do you have any idea how much he cares about you? And then I see the way you look at him, like you’re two steps away from throwing him against a wall, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’re not just together.” When Spock opens his mouth, McCoy adds, “And don’t give me any of that babysitter crap. Jim told me all about it, and you’re not the kid’s father, you don’t have any unethical power over him, and we’re in the friggin’ space age for crying out loud. We have people marrying Andorians and Tellarites, and coming up with ugly little pig-faced, half-blue babies. Love is love. Grow up.”

Those are hardly comparable metaphors. But Spock still feels like he’s been slapped in the face. He’s starting to breathe hard again. He hears that Jim’s miserable without him, and that gives him the horrible dichotomy of feeling guilty and wonderful. He shouldn’t have come here. He looks at McCoy as solidly as he can, but he can feel his veneer slipping away. He feels transparent.

He feels hopeless. There is no way out. Jim comes back from the washroom and sits between them like nothing’s wrong, and they order some French fries. They talk about all sorts of things, and sometimes McCoy looks at him normally, and other times McCoy looks at him with the intensity of the sun. Spock looks at Jim too often.

Nothing’s changed.

* * *

Spock expects there to be a large, complicated process, but he simply says, “Yes.”

And Admiral Pike smiles and slaps him on the shoulder. “Good man. You’ll be a great first officer.”

“First officer?” Spock repeats. He wasn’t expecting such a high position.

But the admiral nods. “I need someone for the role, and you have the best file of anyone down here. I could transfer someone from another ship, but why disrupt a crew like that? Besides, I have complete faith in you.”

“Thank you, Admiral.” He feels a sense of accomplishment, of pride. He’s also unduly nervous. But this is what’s best. For all of them.

It’s done.

“She should be ready to fly by the end of next month. I’ll have you transferred.”

Spock says, “Thank you,” again. The Admiral nods in clear dismissal.

Spock turns and exits the glass office, walking back down the hall perhaps a little too quickly.

It’s done.

A part of him wants to run back and cancel everything.

But the rest of him keeps walking.


	9. Twenty

Packing doesn’t take very long. His apartment is just as clean as when he first acquired it, and as it’s unclear how long he will be in space for, he doesn’t renew his lease. He spends most of his remaining time on Earth working. 

He sees Jim one last time before he goes, through the glass of the observation room. Jim brings an apple to the Kobayashi Maru and runs through the simulation with a flagrant attitude, much to McCoy’s displeasure. Halfway through, all the computers in the observation room crash, and the lights flicker off in the simulator. Spock and his team work to get it back online, and Jim, calm as though nothing’s happened, has the hostages beamed aboard and fires on the enemy ships. It’s obvious from his posture and tone that he was well aware of the computer interference. He hacked the program. 

Spock wants to confront him about it. There’s a slight spike of annoyance; Spock didn’t raise him to cheat. But then, in most respects, Spock didn’t really raise him. Spock holds himself back and lets McCoy tear Jim apart, and he stays in the room long after his team members, aware that McCoy and Jim are lingering outside. At one point, he leans against the door to listen; he can’t go while they’re still there. 

And he misses Jim’s voice. 

He’ll miss it so much when he’s on the Enterprise. 

He misses it already. 

He regrets his decision every day. He moves about with a lackluster attitude unbecoming of his race. His father wouldn’t be pleased. He sends a communication to his mother, but he doesn’t tell her of the situation; this is his burden. And her advice wouldn’t help. He’s made his decision; his hands are tied. He sits on several council meetings with Admiral Pike and takes in the scope of their missions, something that would normally interest him. For now, all he can see are the crew logs—a fluctuating list of over four hundred people that Spock doesn’t know and has no desire to know. 

Sometimes he thinks he should move on. Call someone else. Attempt to form a... relationship. But that thought always makes him feel a little sick, and he knows he could never follow through. He’ll focus on career. On career. He heads to Headquarters for his final briefing with one bag over his shoulder, the rest sent in advance. 

He meets Admiral Pike in the lobby and falls into step behind him, absorbing the dialogue the admiral immediately dives into. Spock wants to drop his bag and run. Regret is not a Vulcan emotion. It isn’t productive; it helps nothing. But it’s consuming him like fire, eating him up. He shouldn’t have done this. He doesn’t know what he should’ve done, but it shouldn’t have been this. 

He’ll see Jim through the console. It won’t be the same. He doesn’t want that. He wants things he can’t have anymore. He never told Jim. He never told McCoy. They’ll just show up at his apartment one day and he won’t be there. He thinks of sending a communication once he’s aboard the Enterprise, but he’s not sure he can do it. He’s a disgrace to Vulcan. 

In the elevator, Admiral Pike turns to him and asks jovially, “Excited, son?”

Spock doesn’t say anything. His knees are made of lead, and that’s a hard enough burden to deal with without tackling his mouth.

He’s made a terrible mistake.

* * *

The bridge of the Enterprise is in top condition, all lights on, sleek and impressive. The admiral takes his place in the captain’s chair, and Spock mans the science console behind him. Admiral Pike orders Lieutenant Sulu to take the ship out, and then they’re at warp, darting through the galaxy. All systems are functioning. Spock double checks for error reports, then leaves his chair, wandering down to stand behind Admiral Pike, arms behind his back. 

They’re headed for Andor first, but there are several stops along their course they have to drop out of warp for. It’s improbable that they’ll reach Andor within their shift. The admiral looks around his bridge and says quietly to Spock, “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Admiral.” But it isn’t as beautiful as Spock thought it would be. It’s... missing something. 

They spend a good deal of time just checking and rechecking systems, making sure everything is working as well as it should. Then Ensign Chekov reports debris ahead, and Lieutenant Sulu takes them through it a tad awkwardly but acceptably. The majority of their first day is, for the most part, uneventful. Admiral Pike finds it to be a wonderful start. 

Spock isn’t inclined to agree, but he sees no reason to dampen the admiral’s mood. 

He has the fleeting thought of throwing Lieutenant Sulu out of the way and jerking the Enterprise back around, back to Earth, where Spock should’ve stayed. Space isn’t what he thought it would be. The stars outside the viewscreen are aesthetically pleasing, but he doesn’t get the same enjoyment his surrounding officers get. Neutrality would be acceptable. But this is worse than that. There’s nothing to study yet. He mostly just sits at his console, watching over things. 

When their shift ends, Admiral Pike leaves the bridge with him, clapping him on the back and saying, “Good first day, Mr. Spock. Hopefully we’ll get some action tomorrow, but in the meantime, what a ship.”

Spock nods: the best response he can muster. They part at the turbolift; the admiral continues on to his quarters. Spock’s are below. When the turbolift moves, he feels like gravity is rushing through him, like he’s heavier than anyone should be. Then he reaches his floor, and the doors slide open. 

He’ll have to get used to this, one way or another. Be professional. He doesn’t know how he will, but he’ll have to manage. Somehow. It can’t hurt this much every day just to breathe. 

He spends the majority of the walk looking down, both as a reflection of his mood and to deter other officers from speaking with him. When he reaches his quarters, the doors automatically open, but Spock can’t walk through them, because someone’s in the way. 

His breathing goes from shallow to nonexistent in a manner of seconds. He’s developed some form of space sickness that’s rendered him delusional. It’s the only explanation. 

Jim’s frowning at him, looking almost as heartbroken as Spock feels, and he says quietly, “You should’ve told me.”

Spock has no words. He wants to reach out and touch Jim, just to make sure it’s real. He’s numb.

“Jim...”

“I was supposed to be serving a semester on the USS Farragut, but when Mom told me about your position here, I begged her to transfer me.” Jim’s voice is careful. Hard. “Spock. ...I know I probably shouldn’t have. I guess you wanted... space.” Jim chuckles once, bitterly, at his own joke. “I’ll leave you alone here. It’s a big ship; we’ll never have to see each other, if that’s what you want. But... just...”

He doesn’t say it again, but Spock has the memory. Spock knows what he needs to say to let Jim go. It occurs to him, just now, far too late, how cruel it’s been of him to keep Jim on that string, but he can’t say what he needs to break them free. He can’t say he doesn’t love Jim. His fingers are shaking. The edges of Jim’s eyes are damp. Spock wonders how he took the news, at first. Spock should’ve thought of Admiral Kirk finding out.

He stiffly walks around Jim, and when their shoulders brush, he shivers. He whispers, “Come in.” Because this isn’t a conversation for the hall, and his voice is too hoarse to go any louder. 

Jim follows him. The doors slide shut. Spock hasn’t even had a chance to properly view his quarters, but he doesn’t care. They’re a backdrop. Jim will be in a smaller area with a roommate. Spock will be in this big room all alone. Jim looks at him, still wearing bright red, done up properly, tight around the collar. He’s still a cadet. Still a student. Spock’s in his proper Starfleet uniform—a blue tunic over black. He’s not an Academy faculty member anymore. His mouth is dry. He wants to lick his lip.

Nothing’s changed. But there aren’t any thoughts. Spock’s body moves on its own.

He lunges forward, grabbing Jim’s face in one hand and Jim’s waist in the other, and he pulls Jim roughly against him, and Jim squeaks in surprise as their lips are smashed together. Spock doesn’t even try to open them. He just needs this. He didn’t mean to do it, but it happened. His arm snakes around Jim’s back and holds Jim’s body in tight, his fingers in Jim’s hair, not letting Jim go. The touch is electric. Jim’s lips are soft and moist. They feel _right_. Spock should’ve done this a long, long time ago. 

A part of him expects to be slapped. To be pushed away. He doesn’t deserve this miracle. He keeps holding on; he can’t help it. His eyes are closed, even though he wants to see everything, because he needs to concentrate on how it feels, and because he’s getting lost already. His cheeks are warm. His logic’s nowhere. 

Jim’s palms slide gently to and up Spock’s arms, clinging to him back. Jim kisses him back. And then Jim’s tongue lightly probes at his, hesitant and just checking. Spock’s obedient. He’s not going to lose this again. He parts his lips and lets Jim’s tongue slip inside, even softer and warmer. Their tongues brush, and Jim explores his mouth, and Spock finds himself moaning shamefully, but he can’t help it. He traces every part of Jim that he can. Half the pleasure is just having Jim in his arms. He kisses Jim like he’s always wanted to, like he should’ve been doing for years. Jim kisses back, and it turns fervent fast, until their hands are clawing in each other’s clothes and hair, tightening and pulling, and their legs are pressing to intertwine and their crotches are flush together. Spock grinds his whole body into Jim; he needs Jim to _know._

When he pulls apart for air, he keeps holding Jim’s head in place so he can press their foreheads together. “I am sorry,” he whispers, eyes still squeezed shut. It’s still wrong. But being _apart_ hurt too much, and he’s a mess. “I am sorry.”

“Tell me you love me,” Jim pleads. He sounds desperate. 

Spock doesn’t even need to think about it. “I love you.” His voice cracks.

Jim’s eyes flutter closed; Spock can feel Jim’s lashes brush his cheeks. Jim needed that too, it seems. It seems like it’s soaking in, and he hisses, “You’re an asshole.” A light push to Spock’s chest, and he’s pulling Spock back again. “Leaving me alone like that, like either of us ever had a chance at being happy apart...”

“I did not want to hurt you. I thought that perhaps you could move on and—”

“You’ve been waiting for that for years, and it’s never going to happen,” Jim says, so fierce, and his fingers have strayed down to the waistband of Spock’s pants, pulling him just that little extra bit closer. “Everyone else I’ve had has just been a poor replacement for you.”

“The Vulcan?” Spock asks, a lump in his throat. 

Jim chuckles humourlessly. “It wasn’t obvious? I was pretending he was you every time he touched me. He just wanted an opportunity to study human biology. We had a mutual understanding, until it got too much and he wasn’t enough, and it just made it worse, because none of it was close enough to you. ...And Bones hated him.” 

“McCoy does not seem very fond of anyone.”

“He likes you, you know. He does.” 

Spock’s not sure he believes that, but it doesn’t matter. He wraps his arms around Jim again, not for a kiss, just to be close. Jim’s chin hooks over his shoulder, nuzzling into his hair, and he presses his face into the side of Jim’s. He squeezes Jim tight enough to be painful; he just has to _feel_ Jim being there. Jim mumbles into him, “I’m the one that never gave you room to try anyone else. I’ve had other people, Spock. I come back to you every time.”

“I do not desire anyone else.” It never even occurred to him to try. He’s never looked at anyone twice. He’s been offered little things (since absorbing Jim’s company and perhaps learning just that little bit of social grace), trips to coffee shops or dinners, but he always turns them down. It doesn’t matter. He thought his studies would be enough. 

They weren’t. When Jim pulls back, fingers slipping off Spock’s shoulders, the tops of his cheeks are wet. He rubs the backs of his hands over his eyes, and Spock feels horribly guilty. It hurts to see Jim hurt. Spock gently pulls Jim’s wrists away and kisses Jim’s cheeks, licking up the water. It doesn’t even make sense, but it’s instinct to do it. It makes Jim laugh shakily and cling to his blue tunic. Spock’s protective instincts are going off, but he’s the one who tripped the alarm. Jim puts one palm against Spock’s cheek and gently thumbs the top of Spock’s cheekbone. Spock’s eyes are wet too. He didn’t even realize. They shouldn’t be. His cheeks are green, he can tell. Jim’s are pink. Jim looks beautiful, so much better than the admiral’s ship ever could. Spock pecks his lips lightly, and he’s smiling again.

“You’ll finally go out with me, then?” And he raises his eyebrows at Spock, as though he’ll murder Spock for saying otherwise. 

“I am afraid I have limited our ability to ‘go out,’ as we are on a starship on course for mere transport destinations.”

Jim laughs. “It doesn’t matter.” He kisses the tip of Spock’s nose. “You know what I mean. You’ll date me. You’ll be my boyfriend. Mine.”

“I have always been yours.” 

Jim’s so, so gorgeous when he smiles. It reaches his blue eyes, and it makes Spock’s heart twinge pleasantly. “I’m yours too.” That’s something Spock’s always wanted to hear. He doesn’t want to see Jim with anyone else ever again. 

He hugs Jim again. He feels useless and weak and unable to do anything but tumble all over Jim, bury him in pent up emotions. Jim smells just like Spock remembers, fits just like Spock remembers. When Jim lets go, Spock doesn’t want to let him. 

Jim wipes his eyes again, and he tries to look around the room. It’s a decently sized, open space with a kitchenette on one side and a couch on the other, and a bedroom beyond that with an attached bathroom. Everything’s new and white and glinting in the overhead lights, pristine and new. Jim comments, “It really is a nice ship.”

It’s better, now. “It is.”

“I’m rooming with Bones again,” Jim says, looking back. “I didn’t even have to get him transferred; he was stationed here already. But he’ll be observing sickbay most of the time. I have all sorts of little things to do at alpha shift, but I hope I can find an excuse to get on the bridge at some point. Admiral Pike used to know my father, you know.”

“I am sure he would be happy to have you there.” Even though cadets aren’t meant to be interfering with bridge operations. They’ll handle that later. Jim’s a determined sort of person; he’ll find a way. 

Jim says, “I want to stay with you tonight. Can I?” But he’s still holding onto Spock, so Spock really doesn’t have any choice. 

Spock’s holding Jim’s chin. He can’t let go of Jim’s face; he needs to be touching Jim in some capacity. “Yes.” It’s wrong, but...

But he just doesn’t _care_.

He tried, he really did. 

He tried to do the right thing, to get on a ship, to go away, but it didn’t work. It only made the longing worse, and apparently it didn’t help Jim at all. Spock doesn’t have the energy to fight it anymore. He’s been worn down through the years, and he’s finally snapped. Jim’s hand runs down his arm to slip into his palm. Jim mumbles, leaning his head against Spock’s, “I just want to pull you into bed and make out with you until they drag me away, but... I guess we should have dinner first at least.” He chuckles. 

Spock nods dully. Dinner. Yes. He’s never really properly made out before. He thinks Jim will teach him. Every time he thinks Jim’s sure to tease him, Jim doesn’t. They’ll... they’ll figure it out. Spock won’t live up to Jim’s expectations, but that’s another hurdle, and that doesn’t matter. Spock walks around to the kitchenette, lightly tugging Jim with him. They could go down to the mess hall—that’s where most of the people will be for food—but Spock doesn’t want to share Jim right now. He tugs Jim by the sleeve. 

Everything feels natural with them. It feels like Jim is simply supposed to be here, like Jim’s always been here, and they explore Spock’s new kitchen together, finding the drawer full of synthesizer chips and pulling out some without bothering to check what they are. They put in two, and they’re pleasantly surprised with Rigelian quiche. There’s an island to eat at, but it only has one chair, so they end up over on the couch. They eat side-by-side, legs touching, shoulders touching. Needlessly close. Spock brings them water, and Jim laughs, “Poor Bones is so put out—he can’t have bourbon or his savoured mint juleps while we’re here. Poor guy.”

Spock thinks having to share his Jim time will be more of a burden, but that’s not something to say aloud. Spock asks, “Will he be worried if you do not return to your quarters?”

“No. He knew I was coming to see you. Wished me luck and everything.” After a bit of silence, Jim answers the question Spock was thinking. “He’s angry with you, of course, but he said he’ll forgive you if you take me off his hands for a while and give him some breathing room.”

“That sounds like a very agreeable bargain.”

Jim laughs. “Is that your way of saying you love me?”

“No. The blatant phrase, ‘I love you’ should suffice.”

Grinning, Jim leans over and nuzzles his face into Spock’s, then pulls back to resume eating. It’s a show of affection that Spock can’t quite explain but enjoys nonetheless. Sometimes it strikes Spock as odd that Jim seems to take no issue with their cultural differences, but mostly it’s clear that Jim enjoys Spock’s... quirks. 

Right now, Jim’s smiling and shaking his head, and he mumbles, “I didn’t think it would go this way. I’m so happy. You have no idea.”

He has some idea. “I did not intend to be so inappropriate.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. I’m tired of being the one chasing you. ...Although if you hadn’t kissed me, I did fully intend to keep chasing you, sorry. I mean, I might’ve tried to back off for a while, but... bah.” He swallows a particularly large bite and adds, “Oh! And I hear you’re first officer! Congratulations!”

“Thank you. Congratulations on your assignment, as well.” Although that does remind Spock of their respective positions. They may not be something of a teacher and student anymore, but he does, still, outrank Jim considerably. 

As if reading his thoughts, Jim says, “Don’t worry about it. Dating’s allowed in Starfleet, so long as it doesn’t interfere with an officer’s work. People do it all the time. Oh, but I think you might have to disclose it to the captain.”

That is one of the few regulations Spock never learned about. The thought of telling Admiral Pike makes him inordinately anxious. The thought of telling Admiral Kirk is worse. Jim could be wrong. “How do you know of this?”

Jim swallows another bite, then shrugs. “My mom told me.”

Spock’s fork abruptly falls out of his hands. He looks sideways, and Jim, smirking, says, “Yes, that’s right, I told her. Well, not about this—I didn’t know that would happen. I told her I wanted you.”

“And her reaction?” Nerves are gnawing at Spock’s skin.

“I won’t lie; she was skeptical at first. If you’d been any other species, we’d be in more trouble, but I assured her you were never inappropriate like that when I was growing up, and she knows that. It wasn’t hard to convince her my feelings were genuine, especially now that it’s been so long, and she’s sympathetic. I mean, we spent so much time alone in that house together as adults, and even with that aside, I think we really work well together, you know?”

“We are dissimilar in many ways.”

“Exactly,” Jim chuckles. “We balance each other out. I need someone to ground me and give me reason, and you need someone to pull you out of your shell and give you fun.” Spock lifts an eyebrow, but the statement isn’t completely groundless. So the admiral... doesn’t hate him. That’s a huge relief. Somehow, it makes it easier to not hate himself. “And then when we actually are together, everything just... fits. I know you so well, and you know me. It’s like you complete me. No one else is going to be able to do that.”

Spock finishes his quiche. He’s just processing everything. While Jim finishes his own, Jim says, “Now say something nice about me.”

“You are incredibly handsome,” Spock says without thinking, and then he feels himself blush when Jim practically glows. “And you are... very easy to miss.”

“Did you miss me when you thought you’d never be able to see me again?”

Spock says honestly, “That would not have happened. There would be subspace communications, and it is likely our paths would cross again at some point. However, I was extremely concerned about the situation I’d caused.”

“Regret,” Jim paraphrases. Spock nods. “Good thing I don’t believe in unhappy endings, then.”

“Thank you for persevering in the shadow of my failures.”

Jim finishes his food. He puts his plate on top of Spock’s and plucks it right out of his lap, bending over to peck his cheek. Then Jim heads back for the kitchenette, depositing the dishes on the sink. He walks back over slowly, and as he approaches, he holds up his arms. 

“I feel like we spent years dating,” Jim mumbles. “We just never got to the bed part.”

Spock climbs off the couch, reaching for Jim’s hands. All ten fingers slip together. Jim walks backwards into his room, and Spock barely gets a chance to look around. There’s a large window with a view of the stars—a perk of a higher-ranking officer. There’s a standard sized bed against the wall, a desk in the corner with a console on it, and a door on the other side for the bathroom. Jim says, “Computer, lights to thirty percent.” And the computer beeps, and it flickers down. 

On some level, Spock’s glad they’re still on. Jim’s too handsome not to see. Jim walks them backwards until his legs hit the bed frame, and then he turns Spock, so they’re both beside it. He’s holding Spock’s elbows. He falls sideways, and he takes Spock with him. They both hit the navy-blue sheets, bouncing off the mattress once, looking at each other. Their calves are dangling over the edge. They’re still wearing shoes. They’ll have to deal with that... later.

For now, Jim’s pressing closer to Spock, as close as possible. He digs one thigh between Spock’s, grinding into Spock’s crotch. Spock shivers and clutches at Jim’s arms. Jim lightly strokes Spock’s face and sighs, “I wanted you so much that now that I have you, I’m not even sure where to start.”

Spock suggests, “Kiss me.” Because he liked that. Too much. Jim pecks his cheek benevolently and settles back down, just staring. 

Spock finds Jim’s fingers and holds the middle and index fingers together, and Jim looks down, observing what to do. Spock’s two fingers run over Jim’s, slowly and deliberately, tracing the edges, ghosting over Jim’s skin. It would’ve been so easy to do this before. Jim might not have even noticed, but... Jim wasn’t twenty then.

Jim breathes, “Suval tried to do this with me.” Spock’s stomach clenches. It’s very... intimate for a Vulcan. But he hears the word ‘tried.’ Jim elaborates, “I wouldn’t let him.”

Spock appreciates that more than he can say. It isn’t a particularly important gesture by human standards, so he knows Jim would’ve refused solely for Spock’s sake. As Spock rolls up Jim’s sleeve and runs the pads of his two fingers up Jim’s arm, Jim asks, “Have you done this with other humans?”

“No.” Because Jim’s been open, Spock clarifies, “I did with a Vulcan cadet once, when I was much younger.”

“Did you have sex?”

“We were sixteen,” Spock answers, although he realizes belatedly that that might not be as obvious an answer to Jim. “No. The extent of our relationship was... oral.”

“Oral sex?”

“Kissing,” Spock corrects. Although it was barely that. A peck once or twice, here and there. No real feelings, just an odd, fleeting situation he almost never thinks of. His cheeks are probably green. He rolls up Jim’s other sleeve. Jim lets Spock touch him, and he starts to run his fingers down the arm Spock isn’t using. They’re a tangle of fingertips and subtle sensations. 

“Have you had oral sex before?”

“I have not.”

Jim leans forward and tilts his face to the side of Spock’s, whispering, “I want to put your big Vulcan cock in my mouth.” Spock shivers. It’s not an act regularly practiced on Vulcan, but the thought of Jim’s pretty lips stretched around his dick is... very desirable. Spock licks his lips, not knowing how to reply. 

He says a little shakily, “I am not... not sure I would be able to skillfully return the favour...” How did he ever get here? This far, so fast? Probably all the years of holding it in; now it’s gently erupting. He’s powerless to stop it.

“That’s okay,” Jim chuckles, and he kisses Spock’s cheek, fingers sliding along the dip between index finger and thumb. “I’d get off on the sight alone. I thought about it enough, finally seeing it would be... amazing.”

Spock’s whole body grows warm at the idea of Jim thinking of him that way. Spock reaches the underside of Jim’s elbow, wanting more skin to trace. Jim must sense that, because he sits up and starts to unzip his jacket, while Spock simply lies still and watches. Jim slips the red fabric from his shoulders, and he mumbles, “You look so hot in uniform.” But he’s pushing at Spock’s shirt like he wants it gone. 

Spock sits up beside Jim to pull his blue shirt over his head, then the black one underneath. Jim pulls off his grey undershirt. And then Spock has a chance to see, really see, the man Jim’s grown into. He’s strong, well defined, but still soft and fairly slim. His skin is more pink and tanned than Spock’s, but still light. He’s all the right shapes for Spock. But no matter what Jim looked like, Spock would probably think that the ideal. He reaches out and places his fingers over Jim’s belly, slowly tracing up. 

Jim puts his hands, fingers splayed and all out, on Spock’s chest. They’ve seen each other so many times, but in some ways, it feels like the first. Jim says, “Remember that time we went to the wave pool together right after I’d graduated?”

“Yes.” How could Spock ever forget that?

“That was torture for me, seeing you almost naked. I’ve jerked off to that memory so many times.”

Spock should probably find that disturbing, but he doesn’t. He finds it hot. He thinks of Jim dripping wet and wearing only shorts too, and he looks down at Jim’s pants, fingers ghosting over the hem. He doesn’t mean to go so fast. He says, “I should take you to dinner first.”

“We just had dinner.”

“I believe you are aware of my intent.” Jim always is. “Is that not the human tradition for courting?”

“Did you research courting?” Jim asks, chuckling, because that is the sort of thing Spock would do. Spock never quite did so intentionally, but of course, things have made their way across his peripherals. But Jim does say, “We can go slower though, if you like. I’ve waited all these years for you; I can wait a few more nights.”

A few more. Spock doesn’t want that. But in other ways, he does. He wants to savour having Jim. He wants Jim to have to know that this isn’t some fantasy he’s been chasing. Maybe time would be good for both of them, even though they’ve had so much of that. He doesn’t want to spoil it, so he doesn’t say anything. He opens his mouth and winds up making a pathetic sort of keening sound that has Jim leaning in again, kissing him gently. Jim runs a hand down the front of Spock’s pants, and Spock’s body remembers the last time that hand was there. It rises to meet Jim automatically, and he’s leaning forward. He _wants_ Jim so badly, probably has since Jim first kissed him, and this time, there’s nothing to stop him. 

But Jim kisses the shell of his ear and whispers, “Let’s get undressed and get beneath the covers. We can just... be together. Until we fall asleep. And then we’ll go to our shifts in the morning, and when we come back, we’ll be together again.”

When did Jim become the one in charge? But it... fits. It makes things easier for Spock. That sounds like everything Spock’s ever wanted, so he nods against Jim’s face, but first he runs his hand down to hold Jim’s wrist, pressing it into his crotch. His eyelids fall down, and Jim’s the one that moans, fingers closing in. Jim licks along the edge of Spock’s ear, and he mutters, “Fuck, I love your ears. They’re so hot.”

Spock doesn’t think that makes any sense. But neither does Jim, sometimes. He likes Jim’s rounded ears too. He thinks of the time Jim was drunk, and he feels obligated to say, “You did... you did lick them, once before. But you were intoxicated.”

Jim pulls back, frowning. “Shit, I thought that was a dream. I’m sorry.”

Spock shakes his head. “It is alright.”

“I don’t know what I said, but I probably meant it. I like your eyebrows too. And your bangs. And your green blood. I know you’re insecure sometimes about being different, but I like it all.” Cracking a grin, Jim adds, “I think I might have an alien fetish.”

Spock lifts his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Jim leans up and kisses each one, making him close his eyes. Then Jim grabs his bangs and pushes them up, kissing his forehead, and his shoulders rise defensively, face screwing up. Jim laughs at him. “Now, should I bite you hard enough to draw blood...?” Spock’s lips tighten. That means no, but he thinks Jim might be joking. Jim kisses his cheeks, perhaps already green, and mutters, “That’ll do.”

Spock wants to explore every centimeter of Jim’s body, because even if he never wanted to admit it, he’s been thinking about it. It started subtle, able to be ignored. Then he thought of Suval getting to touch Jim, and it was unbearable. Jim pulls slowly out of Spock’s arms, slipping back off the mattress. He stands there and undoes his own pants, and Spock stares in fascination. Jim pushes his pants down, just in his grey boxers, and he climbs out of them and his socks and his shoes. The front of those boxers is bulging. Then he reaches onto the bed and grabs Spock’s waistband, tugging at it. Spock leans back on his elbows while Jim tugs off his pants and shoes and tosses them aside. Spock doesn’t even care about the mess. He missed picking up after Jim. 

Jim stares at him and breathes, “Yeah... I’m sorry. I can’t wait. We should go slow, but... but there are other things you can do, and... fuck it, I’m gonna come just from looking at you if we don’t do _something._ ”

“I am amenable to your wishes.” 

“You’re fucking perfect.”

No, he’s just inarticulate at the moment and inexperienced at this. His head’s a little foggy. He lets Jim gesture him towards the headboard, and Spock climbs back, lifting up the sheets to crawl under. Jim climbs in beside him and turns around to look at him, and he’s back for a kiss in seconds. Jim’s clean-shaven; he has to be for Starfleet. The next time they have shore leave, Spock wants to feel what Jim’s like with stubble. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he just puts one on Jim’s hip. Jim keeps kissing him and kissing him, and then Jim finds his other wrist and holds it. Jim parts their lips to mumble, “You need to tell me if you’re uncomfortable, promise?”

“Yes.” But he won’t be. He’s always comfortable with Jim, except when he’s trying to _not_ be with Jim, but he’s never going to make that mistake again. Jim fingers his wrist lightly and shifts it across the mattress, until it’s pressing into the bulge beneath Jim’s boxers. Spock’s fingers wrap around it, exhaling sharply. Jim’s cock. He’s never seen it. He shouldn’t have thought about it, but he has. He wants to touch it. He wants to see it. He rubs it while he waits for instructions, and Jim moans appreciatively, arching into his hand. The fabric’s so thin, so Spock can feel everything. It’s hard beneath him. Then Jim’s hand is sliding into the tip of his underwear, and Spock hisses, “You tormented me.” He didn’t mean to say that.

“I’m sorry,” Jim groans. Spock takes Jim’s cue, his own fingers reaching beneath Jim’s boxers, and they’re tight enough that it holds Spock’s hand right against the skin. Jim’s got a smattering of yellow curls that tickles his palm, and he brushes through it, trying to take Jim out. Jim’s pulling out Spock’s dick and kissing the side of his face. “I’m sorry, I just had to feel it.” Somehow, he knows exactly what Spock’s talking about—the time after they swam. “I’d seen you dripping wet and nearly naked all day, and the way your swim trunks clung to your ass... I wanted you so badly, I could’ve come right in the pool over and over. I knew you must’ve wanted me too, and I didn’t want you to go to bed as hard as me.” Then Jim chuckles darkly. “I shouldn’t say it like it was charity; I was being selfish. I wanted to jerk you off. I knew you probably wouldn’t reciprocate, but I had to do it anyway.”

Spock’s eyes scrunch together. His heart’s beating very fast in his chest. Jim’s gently stroking his cock, pulls his palm back to spit in it, then grabs Spock’s wrist and pulls Spock’s hand away. Spock opens his eyes again and watches as Jim licks right up his palm. He can feel all the tiny bumps on Jim’s tongue, and the wet trail is one of the most erotic things that’s ever happened to Spock, even if it’s subtle. Then Jim puts Spock’s hand back down, and Spock looks down at Jim, beneath the blankets, through the dim light. It’s hard to see, but he makes out what he can. He knows he’ll see it again. Jim’s very large: long and think, pinker than Spock, with a bulbous head that looks like it’s leaking. Spock swipes that away with his thumb and spreads it around the foreskin. Then he clutches at the shaft, not completely sure what to do. 

Jim’s got a hold of the base of Spock’s, and he’s pumping lightly up and down. So Spock does the same for Jim. Jim uses his free hand to make a fist in Spock’s hair, and Spock runs his hand up Jim’s chest, fingering one of Jim’s rosy nipples. Their lips come back together, and Spock can barely do anything with the heady sensations wracking through his whole body. He’s so hard in Jim’s hand, and he can feel how hard Jim is in his. It was always wondrous when they touched, but now there’s a spark of sheer _bliss_ that ignites at every point of contact. When they grind together, their tips brush, their knuckles sliding against each other. It’s awkward and it’s wonderful. It’s so, so good. Spock’s arching into Jim and moaning on every second breath. The sounds Jim makes are beautiful. Jim kisses him and kisses him, tongue all over his mouth and hand all over his cock. 

Spock pumps Jim’s dick and moves his other hand around Jim’s waist, petting Jim’s back and pulling Jim in, holding him there. It feels so right. So, so right. There’s so much pleasure that Spock can barely function. He’s overwhelmed. His whole world is Jim, right now, just Jim, right here. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Their knees bump and their legs get tangled, and Spock’s working up a sweat, and Jim reeks of _sex_ already. But Jim’s always putting out pheromones to trap him, Spock’s sure. Jim’s a walking magnet. When Jim stops kissing him, Spock doesn’t want to let him. Jim mumbles between Spock’s fierce kisses, “Love... you so... much...”

“Mine,” Spock growls, and he doesn’t even know where it came from. 

“Never leave me again.” Jim’s kissing him all over his face; Spock’s kissing Jim everywhere. He’s so close. His body’s tight and tense and full of a boiling pleasure. “Stay with me. Stay with me forever.” 

Spock says, “Yes.” He kisses Jim again. “Yes, yes. I’m so sorry.” He was foolish to ever leave. He shouldn’t have ever done that. He’ll never be able to do it again. Not now that he knows how _right this is._ He’s so close and he’s panting and desperate, and then he has to stop kissing Jim because he needs his air, and he rubs his forehead against Jim’s, eyebrows knitting together, voice breaking. He practically screams. His balls tighten. His cock stiffens in Jim’s hand, and then it bursts his release, splattering both of their stomachs, and the ecstasy almost makes him black out; it blurs his vision and speeds his heart up to a panicked rhythm. His hips are jerking wildly out of his control, bucking into Jim’s hand, and his skin’s on fire. His mind’s completely blank. He looks at Jim through wide, dilated eyes. 

And then Jim’s exploding, right as Spock comes down, into Spock’s hand and over all the same places. He arches into Spock and shrieks, “ _Spock!_ ” And it’s the most beautiful sound Spock’s ever heard. Jim comes and comes, covering them in white, hot jets. His other hand is so tight in Spock’s hair that it hurts, but that’s perfect. Spock lets Jim tug him back. Jim lets go a second later, panting very hard. 

Spock’s just as much of a mess. They’ve both collapsed. They’re both limp, but both still holding each other, satiated and coming back down. Spock doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover. 

Jim glances down and barely manages to breathe, “Yours is clearer than mine.”

Spock glances down at the mess they’ve made over both their stomachs and the sheets. 

Jim reaches down and finds a nearly transparent puddle, and he scoops a sticky gob onto his finger, bringing it up to his lips. Spock watches, transfixed, as Jim sticks the finger between his lips and closes them, sucking it clean and pulling it back out, wet and bare. Spock should probably find that disgusting. Instead, it threatens to make him hard again.

“Holy shit,” Jim sighs, turning to Spock with his beautiful eyes dilated and wide. “Your cum is sweet.”

“Yours is not?”

Jim reaches down and scoops up some from a white puddle, and Spock scrunches his nose. But when Jim holds that finger up to his lips, he has to open them obediently—he couldn’t let Jim down. He licks Jim’s finger off, and he comments, smacking his lips, “It is salty.” But not unpleasant.

“You’re so goddamn hot.” Jim says. He leans closer to kiss Spock, getting himself in the mess. Jim does taste sort of sweet now, and that’s a strange feeling. 

Jim wraps his arms around Spock, and Spock does the same.

Jim sighs against Spock’s face, “We should probably clean up, or we’ll be all crusty and gross in the morning, but... I don’t want to move.”

Spock doesn’t want to either. He doesn’t care. That’s what sonic showers are for. He holds Jim tight, while Jim announces, “Computer, lights off.”

They’re thrown into relative darkness, complete when Spock orders, “Computer, blinds on.” As the window gives them starlight otherwise. The white shields slide over it, and all they’ve got is feeling. But Spock can picture Jim easily, and the feeling’s been what he’s missed. He feels so stupid for how he started the day and so immeasurably grateful for how it’s ending. 

“You better still be mine in the morning,” Jim mumbles through the darkness.

“I was always yours,” Spock reminds him.

Jim chuckles. He snuggles closer into Spock, full and right in Spock’s arms.

Spock was wrong. Even so, for the first time in a long, long time, Spock sleeps only well.

* * *

For the first millisecond of Spock being awake, he doesn’t know what’s happened. 

Then the memory comes crashing down on him, and Jim’s in his arms. Jim’s turned the other way, but Spock would know the blond hair in his face anywhere, the broad shoulders beneath that, the strong chest his arms are wrapped around. His whole body’s arched around Jim, holding him. Jim’s fast asleep; Spock can tell from his breathing. 

He shamefully nuzzles into the back of Jim’s neck, breathing in. Jim smells a little musky, but it’s addicting. Spock’s eyes close. For a long while, he just holds Jim. 

He thinks of things. He thinks of the morality of this, how long he tried to resist, and how quickly it broke. He wonders if he made the right choice, a thought he couldn’t have managed yesterday in the haze of things, but it’s a moot point, because he couldn’t do it any differently. He couldn’t send Jim away now. And Jim’s twenty—a man in his arms. He doesn’t see Jim as a child and truthfully hasn’t for a long time. In some ways, Spock feels like the childish one, under-experienced and lost half the time and always needing Jim to explain things, explain this strange planet, explain all the social aspects that don’t come easily to Spock, even after going to the Academy and living here for so many years. He wonders if he was making excuses. 

If Admiral Kirk approves, surely it’s okay. Does it matter? If she’s alright, and Jim’s happy, isn’t that what counts? This is what Spock wants, he just doesn’t know if it’s okay for him to want it. But it doesn’t matter. If Jim tried to leave, Spock would fight for it now. 

Spock’s front has a crusty sort of substance on it, and it takes him a moment to remember why. There’s a patch on the sheets that’s similar. The room smells stale. A moment of temporary foolishness; they should’ve showered last night. It was worth it. 

Jim stirs several minutes later, and he grunts and rolls over, snuggling into Spock’s neck. Then he yawns and mumbles, “You’re still here.”

“We have approximately thirty minutes before our shift begins.”

Jim sniffs. “Probably no time for a quickie, then. We need showers.”

Spock isn’t sure what a ‘quickie’ is, but he has the feeling he wants it. He agrees that they need a shower. But he doesn’t want to pull out of Jim’s arms. Jim sighs, as though he’s having the same dilemma. 

But he inevitably sits up, and Spock joins him. Jim leans over to peck him and murmurs, “I’ve been dreaming of waking up next to you for years.”

“Is it as you had hoped?” Spock asks.

With a small smirk, Jim picks up the blanket and glances under. Spock’s got the lights on dim. Jim raises his eyebrows in clear approval, drops the blanket, and decides, “Most satisfactory.” He leans in for another, longer kiss. 

Spock wants to pull him back down and never leave this room. There’s no way the bridge can be anywhere near as fulfilling as Jim can. But he has to do what’s best for Jim’s career too, and he inevitably pushes Jim back, saying, “We should shower separately so as not to tempt one another into arrangements we do not have time for.”

Jim grumbles, “You’re terrible. Right, but terrible. We’ve got way too many years of missed sex to catch up on.” He kisses Spock again, like he can’t get enough. 

Then he slips off the mattress and announces, “I’ll go first.” Spock enjoys watching him walk off. 

It’s like they’ve done this every morning. Like this is a usual routine. Spock wonders how he’ll tell Admiral Pike. If he’ll have to. If Admiral Pike already knows. Maybe Jim will say something. Maybe he should stay away from sickbay, lest McCoy try to kill him for leaving.

In the end, there’s nothing to do until it’s his turn to shower other than lie around and think. All he wants to think about is Jim. That’s nothing new. He ends up trying to meditate. 

Then it’s his turn in the shower, and he takes it cold, just in case. He tries not to think of Jim showering. He’s quick. He towels off, and he heads back out, and he changes into his uniform. 

They eat pancakes across the table, missing cereal, but there aren’t any cereal chips. Spock will have to order some for the next trip. Jim says, “Just so you know, I’m coming back here right after our shift. Well, no, I’ll probably go to the mess hall to eat so Bones knows I’m not dead, but then I’m coming back here.”

“We may go to your quarters, if you wish,” Spock suggests in the interest of fairness.

“I don’t think Bones would appreciate that,” Jim chuckles. Spock supposes he’s right. 

Then they’re done and they leave together, both getting in the turbolift at the end of the hall. They get off at different floors. The bridge looks brighter today than it did before, although Spock’s aware that doesn’t make any sense. He says good morning to the admiral and takes his station, and things are in as good condition as they were yesterday. 

He tries to focus on his job, but it’s difficult. For the most part, he manages. Now that he’s less... downcast... it’s a very good job. It occurs to him that he has yet to inform his parents of his new position, and he makes a mental note to contact them next time they’re in range of Vulcan. 

When his shift’s over, Spock heads straight for the mess hall. A part of him wonders if he should allow Jim some room to discuss things with McCoy, but then he decides he can’t wait either way. And he can’t avoid McCoy forever. 

They’re already at a table when he enters the room. They’re tucked away in a corner, and Spock heads towards them, back a little rigid. McCoy’s the one facing him, and when he gets close enough, McCoy gives him such a _look_ that he stops dead. Jim turns abruptly around in his seat, grins, and waves Spock closer. He turns back to punch McCoy in the arm and say, “Bones, give him a break. He made it up to me.”

“I didn’t see any flowers this morning,” McCoy grumbles, as Spock awkwardly takes a chair from another table and moves it closer. They’ve both already got trays, and Jim’s has both a pasta dish and a salad on it. As Spock pulls up to the side of their table, Jim picks the salad up and puts it in front of him.

Spock assumes it’s for him and says, “Thank you.” There’s a fork sticking out of the side.

McCoy rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, great, now you’re fetching the hobgoblin dinner.”

Jim just laughs. “Do you have any idea how many times he’s fetched me dinner?”

“Bah.” McCoy punches Spock gently in the shoulder next, and Spock grunts, staring down at where the impact happened. “You shouldn’t have left like that, you selfish idiot.”

“I thought I was doing what was best for Jim,” Spock says levelly. 

“No, you thought you were doing what was best to make you feel better, and you ended up making both of you miserable. Or did you have fun off on your own for that brief moment?”

While Spock isn’t fully adept in the concept of fun, he knows that what he experienced was the exact opposite. Choosing to attempt to remedy the situation, mostly for Jim’s sake, Spock says, “I apologize for any distress I may have caused you.”

McCoy’s cheeks turn a little pink, and he pulls back, grumbling, “I didn’t care.” And he turns down to pick at his vegetable pie. “Jim’s who you should apologize to.”

Spock looks at Jim and says, “I apologize for the distress I caused you.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just make you publicly declare your love for me as penance.” He grins mischievously and nods at McCoy. “Now tell Bones how awesome I am and how much you love me.”

“Oh good lord,” McCoy mutters, rolling his eyes. 

Normally, Spock would refuse such an embarrassing request. At the moment, he’s too vulnerable and grateful to deny Jim anything. He tells McCoy quietly and with zero inflections in his voice, “Jim is wonderful and I love him dearly.”

“Aw,” Jim sighs, “He loves me.” Spock gets the distinct impression he’s being teased, but given the context, he doesn’t mind so much. He looks back at Jim for approval to move on, and he gets a slight nod. He begins to eat his salad, and McCoy, despite everything, seems to loosen up to him. Which is good, because during their short time together on Earth, McCoy was an acceptable ally. 

They’re about halfway through their food when Admiral Pike walks by them, stopping beside their table. Spock glances up at him, confused at why the admiral would stop. The admiral says with a grin, “I’m glad to see you socializing with the crew, Spock. It’s good for morale.” And there’s something in his features that suggests he thought Spock might’ve not done so well in that department.

As a Vulcan, Spock doesn’t consider the social relationship between higher-ranking officers and training cadets important, but he accepts his captain’s praise. Jim is still teaching him, it seems. Then Admiral Pike turns to Jim and says, “It’s good to have another Kirk aboard, Cadet.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Jim answers smoothly. 

And from there they dive into a small conversation over how things have been, how Jim’s mother is doing, his goals in Starfleet, how the Academy is working for him. The Admiral even shares a few stories about Jim’s father, and Jim introduces McCoy, and McCoy and Spock are generally on the peripherals while the other two talk. It’s sort of like being back on Earth again, and even though Spock would never say it aloud, it is amenable to have someone on that edge with him. When the Admiral eventually leaves, Jim turns to Spock and says brightly, “He’s a great captain. I hope he doesn’t mind when I steal you to be my first officer instead.”

McCoy snorts. 

Spock knows by now that with Jim, anything’s possible.

* * *

The days seem to fly by, and sometimes Spock thinks his life is so complete that something must be about to go dreadfully awry; he’s never been this _whole_ before. It’s an odd feeling to adjust to. He has entirely too many feelings, sometimes. Sometimes he blames his half human blood, and other times he thinks it’s a product of reaching adulthood in the company of Jim. In that sense, it doesn’t seem as crippling as his father always made him think. 

He still does his best to be Vulcan, of course. Be calm, be rational. Jim always seems to like that about him. Jim doesn’t complain about him how McCoy does, but Spock’s fairly certain McCoy cares for him in his own way. During their mission on Andor, they get into the middle of a small local skirmish, and Spock takes a phaser to the arm. It’s a relatively minor wound given their healing capabilities, but it stings badly. As part of his training, McCoy requests to work on Spock, and he heals it right up, despite complaints about Spock’s defensive skills. Spock expresses gratitude. McCoy refers to him begrudgingly as a friend, and it’s strange for Spock to realize that that’s what they’ve become. 

Jim is another matter. Jim progresses in his studies at an exponential rate, until his presence on the bridge is a regular occurrence. Admiral Pike seems to like him, so that helps. He ends up accidentally disclosing his relationship to Spock while in the transporter with the admiral one day, and Spock finds himself less embarrassed than he probably should be. Admiral Pike seems happy for them both, to Spock’s surprise. Jim spends almost every night in Spock’s room. They spend time off duty in Jim’s room occasionally, but the few times they stay overnight, McCoy complains of their inability to be quiet. Spock tries to be quiet. Jim’s loud. Jim has a way of pulling sounds out of Spock. He tries to be respectful. With Jim in his arms, it’s difficult.

Tonight, they’re playing 3D chess in Spock’s room on his bed. Spock’s winning, and Jim says, “You know, I’m always saying how sexy I find everything about you, but you haven’t done much with me.”

“I find you very attractive,” Spock responds, instantly feeling neglectful. He’s not... fully adept at all the nuances of relationships, human or otherwise. He’s also less than expressive, despite any inner turmoil. Jim smiles, denoting that it’s okay. 

“I think you should talk dirty to me.”

Spock’s cheeks are green already, he’s sure. He doesn’t think that’s something he’d be very good at. He gives Jim a scolding look. He’s tried to surpass the sweet-coated days where he had to give in to Jim on everything. Now they’re settling into old times, only they resolve the tension they start. They haven’t had intercourse yet, excluding oral sex, but they’re still intimate in many ways. Jim tries batting his eyelashes, and Spock says firmly, “That is not a concept I understand nor expect to be adept in.”

“I don’t care,” Jim insists. “Try it. For me. I’d _really_ like it.” And he punctuates his point by reaching a hand to Spock’s knee, squeezing gently. Spock hesitates in the midst of conquering Jim’s castle. 

Spock’s fully prepared to say no again, but he doesn’t quite make it, because Jim’s looking at him so intently, and those eyes are irresistible. Spock exhales; it might be worth it, for Jim’s sake. But he’ll be terrible. 

“I promise I won’t make fun of you,” Jim says, sitting up on his knees to be more on display when he slowly begins to slip his coat down his shoulders. “It’s easy. Just tell me what you like, and what you want to do to me...”

Spock’s not entirely sure that would be a good idea. But if it’s going to get Jim naked... and he does want to be a good boyfriend, and perhaps it would be only fair to indulge his lover’s interests... he can at least try. He takes a minute, and he moves his knight to Jim’s castle.

“You have very blue eyes.” Jim lifts an eyebrow, grinning, and Spock forces himself to elaborate. “They are... stunning.”

Spock pauses. Jim looks very, very happy, and he pushes a pawn forward one square. He licks his lips, and Spock continues, “You have very attractive lips. And... a very handsome face.” 

Jim makes it easy. He chuckles, not in a teasing way but in a small, pleased sort of way. Spock says, “I find the sound of your voice intriguing.” Jim gives him a very distinct look, and Spock knows he isn’t being... ‘dirty’... enough. He’s heard Jim’s dirty talk before. “I particularly like when you... when you moan for me.”

Jim bites his lip. Spock breaks away to lift his bishop up one level. He has an opportunity to take Jim’s king in the next move if Jim doesn’t catch him. Eyes raking Jim’s body, it isn’t difficult to choose a random assortment of good features. 

“I enjoy the curve of your back, the muscles on your chest, and the strength in your fingers.” Jim’s cheeks are pink. Spock remembers the rest of the request. What he would like to do to Jim... he wants to take care of Jim, to live with Jim forever, for it just to be the two of them, for them to share all those little moments that life has to offer. But that isn’t ‘dirty,’ so he strays to the other side of the daydream—what he would like them to do in the dead of night, just the two of them, in their little house they’ll someday buy together. “I want to scoop you up into my arms and carry you to my bed, and I want to lay you down and run my fingers over every part of you, note everything that has grown and every part of a body that now belongs to me. I want to take you to Vulcan with me and show you the bedroom I grew up in, pull you onto it and watch you strip out of all your clothes...”

Jim pushes another pawn without looking. He’s leaning forward. Spock might be leaning forward, too. He moves his queen and announces, “Checkmate.”

“I want to go back to Vulcan with you and fuck your brains out,” Jim says, like he doesn’t even care that he’s lost. “Keep going.”

Spock wasn’t going to say that. His face is hot. Thinking of Jim back on his home world is a bigger delight than any chess victory. Thinking only of it, he manages, “I want to pull you into my lap and spread your legs, and then...” But he trails off, because he doesn’t know quite how to say it. 

Jim says, “You’re terrible at this. I love it. Fuck, I love you.” Another instance of Jim making absolutely no sense, but Spock’s not about to complain, because Jim’s grabbing the chessboard and practically ripping it off the bed, carrying it to the corner. He puts it on the desk, all the pieces knocking over in his haste, and he whirls around, storming back. He leans down, right into kissing Spock, not even lying down, and then he’s pushing Spock back. He pushes down and down, until Spock’s head hits the pillows, and Jim’s on him. 

Jim’s halfway through pulling Spock’s shirts off when he stops to say, “Computer, lights, twenty-five percent.” Then it’s back to making out, until Spock can get Jim’s shirt off. There’s nothing particularly romantic or special about the situation, but that’s how they are. It’s just time. Doing everything together. Being close where they shouldn’t. It’s clear that Jim’s wanted this for a while, and he’s so all over Spock that Spock’s heady already. Jim fiddles with the front of Spock’s pants and mumbles against him, “How about I be on top and in charge, so you don’t have to feel like a babysitter?”

Spock hasn’t felt like that for a long time. He simply knew, intellectually, that he should’ve. Between kisses, he answers, “That... would be... amenable...” Because so long as he gets Jim and Jim’s happy, everything sounds good. They’re kissing and struggling out of pants, and then they’re down to underwear and socks, and Jim’s pulling off, and Spock’s trying to follow him, but Jim pushes Spock back down. 

“Lube in my pocket,” Jim mumbles quickly, and he nearly trips over the mess of their clothes in an effort to get to his jacket. Spock shamefully stares at his rear while he fishes around in his pockets, bent double, ass in the air, his grey boxers just a little too tight. Spock’s are getting too tight. Lube. Jim thought to bring lube.

For some unidentified reason, Spock wonders absently if Andor has indoor pools. Or if Jim brought a copy of Deep Space Eight aboard. Maybe his mind’s just on Jim-overdrive. If he didn’t have Jim, he would probably get a great deal more meditation and extracurricular work done. 

Jim turns around with a small, clear bottle in hand, and Spock knows he’s made the right choice. He’s never done this before, but he’s been so far with Jim that he’s not afraid. They’ve spent so much time together and worked up to it. Sometimes they spend time together where they don’t touch at all, other dates end in short kisses, others in _touching_ and _feeling_ and pulling each other down into a spiral of pleasure. This one, Spock’s sure will end well. 

Jim says as much with his eyes. He can’t stop smiling. He walks back to the bed and stands over it, and he massages himself through the front of his pants. He asks softly, “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“I am older than you,” Spock reminds him. Spock is, perhaps, experiencing mild, reasonable trepidation, but he’s not a trembling child. And regardless, he’s sure.

“Maybe not in this area.” But Jim can’t really be complaining, because he’s crawling onto the bed, kissing Spock again. Spock pushes up to get the blankets aside, knocking them over, and Jim struggles to help but mostly just kisses him. Jim doesn’t pull away when he opens the bottle of lube. Spock tries to kiss back and look down all at once—Jim’s squirting a healthy dose into his palm. Then he lifts up over Spock, hair down around his face, and purrs, “Take off your underwear.”

Spock shivers. Jim will make an _excellent_ captain someday. He’s an expert at giving orders. Spock obliges, and once they’re gone, Jim settles between his legs. Spock runs his hands down Jim’s chest, while Jim strokes Spock’s dick once, smearing lube around the base. It’s standing straight up, and Jim bypasses it and his balls to dip back down between Spock’s cheeks, and Spock has to look away; he looks at Jim. He’s sure his face is flushed. He isn’t used to being touched there. But it’s Jim, and he trusts Jim. Jim comes back down to kiss him again, but from Jim’s new position, he has to bend Spock’s legs around his waist. He kisses Spock and runs his wet fingers, one at a time, through Spock’s crack, finding and tracing the tight ring of muscles at Spock’s entrance. Spock brings one hand down to Jim’s cock, just to keep himself hard. He traces up and down the vein-covered shaft with his index and middle finger, soaking in all the subtleties. Jim shivers in his arms and kisses the side of his face.

“Will you mind meld with me?” Jim asks, something forbidden they’ve rarely spoken about. He’s out of practice, but he still knows how, is reminded every time his fingers stray too long on Spock’s body. Spock remembers every time he ever mentioned it to Jim, just three times in eight years, explaining another difference between them. When Jim was little, he thought it was so cool. It wasn’t until much later that he understood how personal it was, how rare. But the thought of being in Jim’s head...

“Some day,” Spock whispers. He wants to be in every part of Jim, but that’s... more serious. Some day. Jim nuzzles into Spock’s cheek, grinding lightly into him and fingering his hole. 

Jim mumbles, “I want you to.”

Spock kisses him and repeats, “Some day.” Jim nods. 

Jim pushes the blunt tip of one finger inside Spock’s hole, and Spock wasn’t expecting it, and he gasps. It doesn’t hurt, not as wet as it is, but it does feel strange. Jim’s got a hand in his hair, stroking his cheek. Jim keeps their mouths together while he gently pushes the finger farther, lightly, little bit by little bit. When Spock tenses, he pulls out a little, and when Spock relaxes, he pushes further in. Spock tries to be still, and Jim says quietly, soothingly, “Just relax. It’ll feel better if you relax. Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll stop.”

“It does not hurt,” Spock replies. It’s just... very _odd_ and getting odder. Especially when another finger presses in. Just the tip at first, but Spock still tenses when he doesn’t mean to, and Jim stops again. But Spock doesn’t want that. He wants Jim’s fingers inside him all the way so that he can have Jim’s cock. No that Jim’s fingers aren’t hot. When Spock thinks of Jim’s hands, slim and strong beautiful, it makes his cock twitch against Jim’s stomach. Jim’s dick is like a metal rod, pressing back into him, sliding roughly against his own. Somewhere along the line, Jim’s lost his underwear.

Jim purrs, “Relax, Spock, relax. You’re so _tight_.” He’s warning, but from the tone of his voice, Spock gathers it’s not entirely a bad thing. Jim finally gets his fingers in to the knuckle, and then he starts to pry them open, and Spock clenches his teeth. Jim’s going back and forth between kissing him and petting him and crooning into the side of his face. Spock takes it all. Loves it all. Jim pulls out to press a third finger at his trembling hole. 

Spock asks hoarsely, “Is that necessary?” Because he doesn’t like waiting. Not for this anyway, not when he’s dripping and ready. 

“No,” Jim groans, prying Spock open enough to force another gasp. “But I don’t want to hurt you...”

“Vulcans are more... resilient... than humans...” Spock reminds him, trying to regain a normal breathing pattern. It’s hard with Jim’s fingers inside him; it makes his hips want to jerk up. When he glances down between them, Spock can see Jim’s still-lube-coated palm, and it makes him tremble for _more_. “Please, Jim. I believe I am ready.”

“Tell me to stop if you want,” Jim hisses, kissing Spock’s cheek fast and pulling his fingers out, making Spock arch up and hiss. Jim spreads the lube onto his own cock, pumping it. “But you probably won’t need to. I’ll know. I know you.” Better than anyone. He steadies himself with one hand next to Spock’s arm, the other holding the base of his cock as he lines himself up, kneeling between Spock’s legs. “Ready?”

There aren’t words to describe how much. Spock nods, and Jim sucks in a breath. 

Jim slams inside. 

Spock _breaks._ He arches up off the bed, into Jim’s body, and he screams right into Jim’s ear, and his heels dig into Jim’s lower back and his arms fly to Jim’s shoulders. Jim lowers down onto him instantly, crashing their mouths together, already open, and Spock’s tongue is on fire, diving into Jim’s right away, needing to convey how it feels. Jim feels so big inside him, so far up, it keeps going, and he’s so full, full of _Jim_. Jim shifts and that does it—he’s hitting something, Spock should know the name for it, know his own body, but he’s so overwhelmed—and all he knows is _pleasure._

Jim looks just as blissful, gritting his teeth and scrunching up his dilated eyes and holding onto Spock’s hips, and each time he breaks their kiss, he just goes right back in a second later. It’s like they can’t stay apart. Jim starts to slip out, and Spock moans, “ _Jimmm..._ ”

But then he’s back in and— _yes_. Right _there_. Spock runs his hands around Jim’s body, slipping up Jim’s shoulder, pulling him down and holding him tight. It still feels strange, but it also feels right, and it feels so, so good. Jim slides all the way in, luxuriously and beautifully, and then he’s sliding out, fingers tracing Spock’s sides and curling around Spock’s shoulders. Jim moans each time he moves, and he looks like he’s going to drown in pleasure. Voice barely a whisper, he moans, “ _Fuck_ , Spock, yes. Wanted this _so much._ ”

Spock did too. And it’s better than he thought it would be. It isn’t awkward. It isn’t fumbling. It’s like their bodies were made to go together, like they just know what to do. Jim gently tugs Spock’s arms away while he rocks in and out of Spock’s body, and Spock lets Jim intertwine their fingers. He pins both of Spock’s hands to the mattress. Their chests are all lined up, Spock’s dick trapped between them. Jim’s trying to go slow, it’s clear. But he winds up going faster and faster, in and then out, in again and making Spock nearly writhe with pleasure. He’s so hard. He’s afraid he’s going to come, and he doesn’t want to too soon. The air is full of the sounds of their kissing and touching and skin slapping. It’s wet and it smells like Jim used to so often in the mornings—Spock doesn’t understand how he ever resisted. Spock’s never mind melded with Jim, but sometimes, right now, it feels like they already have. 

One of Jim’s hands leaves his—Spock can’t keep track of where it goes. All Spock can do is lie there and take it, but his fingers start to twitch, and he knows he’s getting close, and his head is foggy. His hips are jerking violently up into Jim—he doesn’t even know how that started, but he can’t control it—it’s like his body’s natural reaction to being full of _Jim_ like it should be. Jim pulls his tongue out of Spock’s lips long enough to pant, hips still going, “Do you want a turn?” His voice is erotic and hoarse and broken by moans. 

Spock doesn’t trust himself to formulate a sentence. He nods. Want a turn at what? He wants whatever Jim has to give. Then Jim’s sliding out, all the way, pushing Spock’s thighs aside. Spock can feel a little bit of lube trailing out of his ass, and his hole’s convulsing wildly. Jim moans, “Fuck, you’re so hot, so hot, Spock...”

“ _Jim,_ ” Spock groans, wanting to say more but only managing that. He tries to look properly, though the lights are low and his eyes are half-lidded. Jim’s arm is behind him. Then Jim’s lifting up, and he’s climbing over Spock, straddling Spock’s waist. He’s on his knees. Spock can see where Jim’s hand is—it’s between his own legs, reaching down from behind, fingering his own hole. Spock has to will himself not to come. He almost tries to meditate. It’s one of the hottest things he’s ever seen. Everything on that list has to do with _Jim_.

And then Jim sits down, right onto Spock’s dick, impaling himself in a heartbeat and screaming. He throws his head back, looking beautiful. Spock’s in ecstasy. He grabs onto Jim’s hips and bucks up, hard, making Jim’s cock bounce against his stomach with the force, and Jim gasps and groans, nearly losing balance. He puts his hands right on Spock’s chest, and Spock’s still going, humping him hard, harder than Spock means to. Jim rides it, and he starts to help, bouncing up and down on it, mouth open and panting. Spock’s overwhelmed. He wants every little thing Jim has to give, and with a feral roar, he rolls them right over.

Something’s taken over him—the want, the desire. Suddenly, he’s on top of Jim, Jim crushed into the mattress, legs in the air around Spock’s body, and Spock holds onto Jim and _fucks_ him _hard._ Jim shrieks and trembles in Spock’s arm, cock rock hard between then. Spock grabs it with one hand and pumps while he thrusts. He strokes Jim off, and he pounds Jim into the mattress. Jim’s so tight around him. Jim’s hot, smooth, slick walls are pulsing, sucking him in, and as soon as he pulls out, he’s in again, every time. He tries to kiss Jim, but it’s messy; he’s lost track of everything, boiling over. Jim helps. Jim grabs him by the hair. Makes them kiss. Makes Spock feel so good. 

Jim comes first. He takes his tongue out of Spock’s mouth long enough to scream, “ _Spock!_ ” And his release splashes all over them both, cock bursting in Spock’s hand. Spock keeps pumping anyway, keeps going, milking everything out. Jim’s ass is spasming around Spock, and he can hardly take it. He uses his free hand to grab Jim’s ass, squeezing hard. He can’t take it. He comes undone. He explodes inside Jim, grinding it out like an animal. It makes Jim whimper and squirm, and that makes Spock moan louder. 

For a long moment, he exists in that place, in utter delight, in being _one with Jim_.

And then he’s coming back down again, cum all out and trapped inside Jim, and he’s panting. Barley able to take in air. He keeps holding himself up, even though he wants to collapse, because he doesn’t want to crush Jim. Jim’s panting just as hard, lips kiss-swollen and cheeks red and hair slicked down with sweat. 

Before Spock has a chance to pull out, Jim mumbles breathlessly, “ _Fuck_ , you’re good in bed. How is that even possible?”

Spock doesn’t have an answer. He’s glowing with pride, though—another useless emotion. He probably couldn’t formulate the proper words, even if he did know what to say.

“Were you really a virgin?” Jim asks.

Spock nods. He’s not anymore. He wants to go again. No, he wants to sleep, with Jim in his arms. Then he wants to go again. But they’ll have their shift in the morning...

And he’ll get to serve that shift on the same starship as Jim. Suddenly, he’s very glad he said yes to Admiral Pike. He climbs up to his knees gingerly, and he pulls his way out of Jim slowly. Jim winces, and cum trails out after Spock’s dick when he leaves. Jim gets up on his elbows to look, then collapses in the pillows, sighing, “I’m coming in you next time.”

Spock looks around for the blankets, kicked off to the end of the bed. He pulls them up with him as he settles back down next to Jim, on the same pillow. He tucks them in, tired. And thirsty. He’ll deal with that in a minute. First, he touches Jim’s cheek, and Jim grabs his hand and kisses the back of it. “I am sorry.”

“Stop it,” Jim laughs. “I already forgave you. ...And you’re especially forgiven after that.” He rolls onto his side and kisses the tip of Spock’s nose. 

“Would you like water?”

“Yes. And by the way, I think it’s awesome that you take care of me.” Jim gently runs his hand up Spock’s arm, just lightly tracing patterns in his skin, back and forth. “And now I can take care of you too.”

Emotionally, Jim’s taken better care of Spock than anyone ever has. It’s rare that he smiles, and it’s only for Jim. He does it now.

Jim grins like the sun. He says, “When I get my own starship, I’ll build you a beautiful master suite and everything.”

Spock leans over to kiss Jim’s forehead, and he sits up again, climbing over Jim to get out of the bed. He walks around to his kitchenette, naked, finding his rear slightly sore when he moves, and he fetches two cups of water, bringing them back. Jim downs his faster than Spock, and they put the empty cups on the nightstand. Then Spock lies down, and Jim sidles up to him, so close to each other, like they’ve been every night since they boarded the Enterprise.

“There’s just one problem,” Jim sighs, at the exact same time Spock orders the lights off and the blinds down.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to need a good excuse tomorrow to explain to Bones why I’m limping.”

For a minute, Spock is swamped with concern and doesn’t even know where to start. “I am terribly sorry if I injured you, that was not my inte—”

“Spock,” Jim laughs, “That’s a good thing. I’m not hurt. It just means you fucked me hard enough that I’m going to be sore tomorrow. ...But hey, you might be too.”

Spock doesn’t consider ‘sore’ is not a pleasant adjective. However, given the context and Jim’s tone of voice, Spock trusts Jim’s words. It’s a good thing. A mark of his sexual prowess, perhaps. In that case, he’s half tempted to just tell McCoy exactly how Spock did. ...But that would be horrendously inappropriate behaviour, so he says simply, “If you are not injured, it should be no concern of Mr. McCoy’s.” 

“In other words, it’s just between you and me?”

“Yes.” Like so many things in Spock’s life. 

Jim sighs. Spock can feel Jim’s warm breath ghost over his neck and his collarbone, and Jim’s arm adjusts across his stomach, hand at his side. Jim’s voice sounds tired, and Spock understands the feeling. He’s drained all his energy, and all he wants to do is fall asleep in Jim’s arms. 

He does, eventually, but not before hearing Jim whisper, “I love you,” through the darkness. 

Spock whispers, “I love you,” back, and he kisses the shell of Jim’s round ear.


	10. Twenty-Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is a short little thing as penance for breaking some hearts in chapter 8, and also you were all so nice to me in your comments and I love you so, so dearly. <3

_“—Not to mention the anti-grav controls—”_

“ _Bones,_ ” Jim repeats, this time with a bit more force in his voice. “Just tell me how my ship is doing.”

 _“Fine, no thanks to you,”_ the chief medical officer grumbles across the communicator.

Jim sticks out his tongue, even though Dr. McCoy can’t see it. Spock sees it, because he’s come back to the doorway of the bathroom, watching his lover take a status report without bothering to get up. He’s still on his front, sprawled out in bed, just where Spock left him. One sheet is half draped over his lower body, covering part of his back, his ass, and his thighs. “You’re the one that prescribed me bed rest until it’s over.”

_“Well it better be over soon. Sulu’s a decent substitute, but he’s not a captain.”_

“And I’m the best captain in the world and you miss me.” Jim sighs, earning an indignant snort on the other end of the communicator. It looks like he might say more, but then he glances over his shoulder, and he sees Spock standing there, naked as he is. “Hey, my _t’hy’la_ ’s back. I’ll have to call you back later.” That word, coming out of Jim’s lips, always makes a shiver run down Spock’s spine.

 _“You’re getting a check-up tomorrow so I know the hobgoblin didn’t hurt you, and I expect you back on the bridge tomorrow, you lazy ass,”_ Dr. McCoy answers, but he hurriedly breaks the connection. The last time they left their communicators on during the night, he wasn’t at all happy with them.

Jim tosses his communicator back to his nightstand, and he puts his head back in the pillows, spreading his legs a little more, purring through half a yawn, “Want another round, baby?”

Spock’s not sure Jim could actually take another round. _Pon farr_ has been brutal, fervent, and so stringent that Spock’s not entirely sure Jim will be able to make his appointment tomorrow. But for most of it, Spock was so overwhelmed with _love_ and the urge to _take_ his _mate_ that he couldn’t control himself. They have a personal medkit by the bed that Jim’s used a few times, and Spock does his best to still take care of Jim in between rounds, but mostly, Jim’s just taking care of him. Jim isn’t a Vulcan, but he’s the _perfect_ lover. He’s clearly exhausted, and he still beckons Spock over, whining, “C’mere.”

Spock’s been trying to control himself. Give Jim a break. The fever’s dying down; he’s slowly regaining control of his senses, though the instinct to _bury his seed deep inside Jim_ isn’t something easy to shake. It’s a good thing Jim’s the captain, and Spock his first officer, so it’s fairly simple to take a shore leave detour for the crew and allocate the proper time for them. It’s never enough time. Even as the want to hold Jim so close that they meld into each other dissipates, Spock still can’t resist coming closer. Jim’s got to be sore, so sore. But Spock’s knee hikes onto the mattress, and he crawls forward, a predator in heat. Jim stays where he is, on his stomach, grinning lazily and lifting his ass up. Tantalizing. Perfect.

Spock brushes the sheet away to find Jim’s perfect ass the way he left it, round and taut and pink from too much use, hole dripping translucent cum down onto the mattress. Spock presses his fingers into it, testing how loose it is. Jim’s never loose. But Spock doesn’t want to hurt him. Jim moans and insists, “I’m fine, baby, take me.”

Spock stretches over him. Lines them up properly, chest to back, crotch to ass, legs a mess together. Spock runs his fingers down Jim’s arms, loving the way Jim shivers. Jim’s coated in sweat and impossibly warm. Spock kisses the back of Jim’s neck and growls more deeply than he means to, “You are tired. I will not take you like this.” The words are half to himself. He still wants Jim, of course, and he rubs his cock between Jim’s cheeks. He can feel Jim’s wet, twitching hole against his base. But Jim’s tired; Jim needs sleep. Spock did enough damage in the last few days.

“I don’t care,” Jim sighs. “Take what you need.” He closes his eyes, and despite everything, he looks happy. “I’m all yours.”

“I regret that humans do not experience a similar ritual so I could return the favour.” That’s the _pon farr_ talking—of course he wouldn’t wish this impairment on anyone. But Jim chuckles.

“Oh, the shit I would do to you if I had _pon farr_.” He open his pretty blue eyes, looking back at Spock. “...But then, I guess I do all that shit usually. You’re always mine.”

Spock nods. If Jim wanted, he’d don an Orion slave collar and kneel at the foot of Jim’s bed for the _pon farr_ equivalent—several days of just Jim fucking him, over and over. The two of them locked in the captain’s quarters. Sleeping in a sticky mess of bodily fluids, tight around one another. The air so hot. Everything’s so... peaceful.

Spock buries his face in Jim’s hair and inhales: the scent of his _t’hy’la_. He mutters, “I love you,” and he pushes that love through their connection. The first mind meld Spock did still holds; he can still share everything with Jim when he wants to. But he does it again, sometimes, just because he can’t help it, because he needs them to be as close to _one person_ as possible. Sometimes Jim begs him to do it. When Jim begs through their bond, Spock’s knees get weak.

Now Spock’s strong and an animal and he grinds into Jim’s ass, the cheeks moist with sweat and cum. Spock strokes Jim’s arms and runs down to Jim’s sides, touching as much of Jim as he can, humming through their connection and kissing and licking and sucking the back of Jim’s neck. Jim’s spent and submissive, lying there and taking it, occasionally lifting his ass back up. He’s already asked Spock not to touch his cock anymore; he’s come all he can and he’s just being _such a good boyfriend._ He sighs and breathes, “I love you.” Spock kisses his cheeks. Jim’s whole face lights up when he smiles.

Even though he’s not inside, it doesn’t take long for Spock to get close, helped out by Jim shoving adoration through the bond. Spock wraps his arms around Jim’s body and grunts, spilling himself, for what feels like the millionth time, over the top of Jim’s ass. Jim makes a keening sort of sound as he’s covered in a fresh coat of Spock’s cum, but he doesn’t complain. Never does. He’s sucked Spock off and swallowed enough during this for all of Spock’s shame to be gone. When Spock’s done, he’s as close to limp as he’s been since _pon farr_ started.

“Your strength is admirable, Captain.” Spock’s referring to the fact that he’s yet to truly _faint_.

Jim chuckles. “Your libido is admirable, Mr. Spock.” And he lifts up his back slightly, signaling that he wants Spock to roll off. Spock does, landing in the mattress beside Jim, immediately shifting to encase Jim in his arms. A part of him doesn’t want to go back to the bridge tomorrow, but the other part of him does love serving under his captain, exploring this whole wide universe together. Jim reaches to stroke Spock’s cheek and brush his bangs aside, and Jim yawns again, sleepy and somehow still erotic. Or maybe that’s the _pon farr_ thinking. “Can I sleep now?”

“You may sleep any time you wish.”

“You don’t need to wake me if you want another round,” Jim offers. “M’all yours.”

“I will respect your regeneration period.”

“You need a shower.” It’s off topic, but it’s true. Jim puts one hand against Spock’s chest and gently draws nonsensical patterns on it, sighing, “After this, I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to bathe you, sweet and innocent, and I’m going to feed you properly, and I’m going to make sure you have a full recovery.”

Spock’s chest is tight in an oddly pleasant way. None of that will be necessary. But he _wants_ it, and he _loves_ when Jim takes care of him. So he nods, and he repeats for the tenth time, “Thank you for indulging my... affliction.”

“My pleasure.” Jim grins broadly. “Seriously. It was my pleasure too, for the first few rounds, at least.” He’s thumbing Spock’s cheek affectionately. He pecks Spock on the lips, quick and chaste. “We’ll have to make it to Vulcan next time.”

“I would like that.”

“I like you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“I do not think that is possible, Captain.”

Jim laughs and wraps his arms tight around Spock’s body, entwining them beautifully and shining like a star, all Spock’s ever wanted.

Tomorrow they’ll return to the bridge, and Jim will be strong and in charge again, a symbol of everything good for every member of the crew.

But he’ll be Spock’s at heart. Spock finds Jim’s hand and holds it. He wraps himself around Jim, body, mind, and soul, and everything is perfect.


End file.
